#minimal containing string

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

18+ thoughts about LOGAN holding your hands above your head while you fuck

[fem!reader, mdni]

He rather likes the control of it, the ability to configure and move you in ways he pleases. The image of you below beautifully lewd: your wrists crossed over the other, a singular large hand securing their effortless bind – his weight from you above anchoring you in place.

Your knees loosely hugging at his waist, the contact minimal and desperate and clingy through your bound, busied hands. You’re handsy, urgent to feel him, though you can’t. All you can do is ball your fists and wiggle your hands, needy, extended fingers reaching down to skim the skin on the back of his hand.

He knew you were keen for contact, he could see it. Those knitted brows curling on your face every time he pulses around your hands, the act like he was teasing you with the temptation of letting go. The tiny microexpressions a window into every small yet overwhelming feeling you’re struggling to contain. 

His hips rock into you in a fluid, easing motion – each stroke calculated and precise despite it all being so soft and gentle. His cock sinking into you ever so perfectly, every wind nicely hitting at that spot inside.

His hands are occupied with you while yours remain empty – one hand still gripped firmly around your wrists, the other clutched to your side. His palm warm and busy as he touches you, the hasty motion of his wandering hand feeling over your side and your hip and your breast. 

Your knees tighten at his side as you adjust your hips, the new angle allowing him to slip in just that bit deeper. 

“Fuck,” he utters into your rawly kissed neck. The fresh, flush feeling of you loosening and tightening makes him momentarily miss a breath. “Fuck,” he repeats, the word strained and breathless between a staggered thrust.

The grip he has around your wrists tightens, his hold straightening your arms above your head. He dips in to press a string of kisses along your upper, inner arm – littering the sensitive skin with gentle, loving pecks. And the hand he briefly has on your waist lowers, his palm moving to situate on the back of your knee. 

The slight force prying your legs open, keeping them comfortably spread apart for him between. To fuck into you just that bit further.

[willyoubemycherryy]

Counting Licks (Bo Chow x Reader)

Summary: He does bite- never too hard though…

Contains: smut, giving a bitch sum head or sum, minimal plot, no I genuinely mean it, oral (f. receiving), kissing, dirty talk, refers to the 🐱 as ‘her’, he’s feral for the cookie, pussydrunk Bo, biting, petnames, “I ain’t never date no man who ain’t suck me off the bone”, BITINGGGG, public, but u guys are alone, I saw sinners again last night and this is the product so good luck

A/N- if you see a mind running around that looks lost, it’s mine. Leave it be.

+ with @bochowswife and @taylormarieee in mind🥰🎀

*Takes place in the ‘fix it’ universe

.♡

The club had been open for weeks and had been a bigger success than originally planned.

It was kind of an unspoken rule that anyone in attendance didn’t mention the incident from that night, it being “bad mojo” and all that and people were only too happy to put it behind them.

Another thing that happened by the end of the first week was the switch from plantation credits to actual money or change. Quarters, dimes, nickels, were all welcome as long as it could spend. They changed it in a way that business wasn’t affected but worked for the locals. Now, prices were different depending on what they was drinking and that did wonders for money flow. So much in fact, that they needed help managing it all.

That’s where you and Bo come in.

Managing his own store and such, Bo was good with numbers- quick too- a trusted friend of the twins, and he’d been there to help them set up since day 1. So when the twins asked him to do the till counts during near end of the first half of the night, it was an easy yes. Surprisingly enough, Smoke and Stack were on the same page with not minding Bo bringing you into the office with him while he worked; claiming you kept him focused and that was that but….

Bo was supposed to be counting the tills and you were supposed to keep him focused.

“Mmmm, she’s so sweet baby”,

Bo purrs in that heady southern drawl before he laps another firm drag up your slit. “Nice n’ wet f’me..”.

A debauched moan bubbles deep from your chest as Bo slurps your clit into his mouth with a drunken hum. The vibrations make your head spin, lower stomach tensing up as you try to ground yourself before you lose your mind but Bo doesn’t let up- can’t bring himself to. Not when you coat his mouth with your taste looking like the answer to every prayer he’s ever prayed with full lips and wide eyes that constantly looked at him like you didn’t just want him but needed him.

He groans, pulling away with a string of saliva connecting you, smacking his lips hungrily as his hands help themselves to your curves and god- you melt. Much like ice would under the heat of the devil’s tongue only faster this time because pleasure is always better when business is meant to be the goal. Tingling nips to your thighs trail back up slowly to your wetness and you suck in a deep breath through your teeth, heavy arousal licking flames across your skin making you sweat. The music outside was loud enough to drown out your activities which was great because Bo was aiming to suck you off the bone.

Gripping the fat of your hip, he pulls you closer against his open mouth- tongue wet, hot, and insistent as he hungrily licks inside you. The pleasure is crushing and your hands find his hair, petting and messing at it weakly while you gasp and whine in bliss. Bo takes your throbbing bud in his mouth again, lapping stroke after stroke against the underside of your clit before rolling it between his teeth and you jolt as he bites down with just enough pressure for the pain to warm before he soothes it with a heavy lave of his tongue and you cry out so hard it feels like your chest is caving in.

“B-Bo! We-, the t-ti- fuuuck!” You can’t even string a sentence together with the way he’s taking you apart, sucking your clit like a piece of candy before rolling the sensitive swollen nub back between his teeth and you’re shaking. Eyes fluttering back as the most pitiful choked out sobs you’ve ever heard from yourself fall from your lips as you grind up into his handsome face.

It’s as if you’re floating. His hands are so big and rough- strong and everywhere. You might be crying for real now. Bo’s so hard that the blood rush makes his ears ring but he couldn’t be bothered to pay that any mind.

Not when you’re so close.

“Thaaat’s it sweet thing..”

And you’re crying and stuttering in that sweet, pretty, way you did whenever you got real close-your hips bucking up into his greedy maw and he can feel the way your leaking hole twitches under his tongue and he growls. A hand leaves your hips in favor of stuffing three of his fingers knuckle deep inside your spasming cunny as he catches your clit and bites- flattening his tongue to soothe the pain sweetly and he’s so sloppy with it as his fingers lazily stretch you open that you can’t take it anymore. It’s too good- too much.

The slutty arch of your back doesn’t make your orgasm any easier to bear as it tears clean through you, coming so hard you hear sight. Heart beating through your chest as you scream, spraying his thick fingers and sinful mouth with a hot burst of your slick. It gives Bo goosebumps as he moans into your flushed skin, mouth working even harder as he laps up your release. Even sucking you off his fingers before rushedly undoing his pants and jerking his fat throbbing shaft off with that same hand. Burying his head back to finish cleaning you up, the sweet taste and smell is so fucking good- so heady- that he’s coming minutes later into the hand that’s soaked with you, resting his head against your thigh while you catch your breath and wait for your senses to realign so you can convince him to take you home.

Till counting long forgotten.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝒷𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: A super mysterious artist who kinda blends the lines between being the creator and the creation himself. His piercing eyes and his quirky style pull you into his world of raw creativity and quiet intensity.

When you're invited to his studio to complete a college art project, you’ll be sucked into his art, his silence, and that eerie feeling that he sees way more of you than you expected. The real challenge?

Keep your focus on your brushwork.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, forced proximity, obsessive behavior, non-consensual, unwanted touching, grinding, dubious consent, predatory behavior, penetration, very rough sex, whiny submissive Sol at one point and dominant Sol at another point, same goes to you—reader as well, and somewhat long ass word count—I got carried away, took two days straight to write.

You stood outside the apartment door, the faint hum of the building’s creaky pipes filling the silence. A faint scent of paint and something sweet—floral, maybe—escaped through the crack at the base of the door. Your fist hovered briefly before you knocked, your knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

You'd come here to his apartment for a college project on Expressionism, drawn by his reputation as the quiet genius in your class. The space was a living embodiment of his mind—a sanctuary of creativity and controlled chaos. Canvases leaned against walls, his surfaces erupting with bold strokes and raw emotion. The air hummed faintly, tinged with the smell of oil paint, charcoal, and the faintest trace of something floral—perhaps the namesake of the mysterious Solivan Brugmansia—Sol for short. 

There was a pause. The sound of footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried, before the door clicked open.  

Sol stood there, framed by his apartment’s warm, ambient light. His black hair, streaked with vibrant green, gleamed faintly, catching the dim overhead light. The half-up, half-down style gave his sharp features an ethereal quality, the long central streak of hair falling between his orange and crimson eyes while two smaller strands framed his face.  

Today, he was dressed as part of the canvas he worked on. A black shirt, fitted but comfortable, paired with matching pants, both splattered with faint remnants of past creative frenzies. Over this, he wore a painting apron streaked with the vibrancy of forgotten colors—a kaleidoscope of blues, yellows, and pinks. It looked almost ceremonial, as though he were a priest of Expressionism itself. 

“Hey,” Sol said, his voice soft but resonant, as if each word had been weighed and measured before leaving pierced lips. He stepped aside, gesturing you in.  

You entered cautiously, suddenly hyperaware of how much space you were occupying. Sol’s apartment was an eclectic mix of chaos and artistry. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with books, jars of brushes, and sketchpads in various stages of use. Canvases leaned haphazardly against one wall, his surfaces alive with strokes of vibrant, chaotic color.

A large easel stood in the corner by a wall, its frame splattered with years of paint, and next to it was a table strewn with tubes of oil paint, jars of water, and what looked like a half-finished sculpture.  

The furniture was minimal but intentional. A worn, paint-streaked couch sat across from a low coffee table, which had been overtaken by sketchbooks and coffee mugs. The faint glow of string lights wound around the ceiling added warmth, softening the industrial feel of the concrete floors.  

Sol closed the door behind you, the lock clicking faintly. “Shoes off, please,” He said, his gaze flicking briefly to your feet. He was wearing socks, his black shirt, and matching pants, giving them a striking silhouette beneath the paint-streaked apron he wore. “Do you always live like… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the organized chaos.  

Sol glanced around as if seeing the space through your eyes for the first time. “It’s functional,” He said simply, before pulling a stool toward the easel and sitting. “I know where everything is.” He reached for a brush, spinning it absently between his fingers. “Did you bring the sketches?” You nodded, pulling a folder from your bag. “Yeah. I mean, they’re rough. I wasn’t sure if they’d fit the theme.” You hesitated before handing them over.  

Sol didn't say anything right away. Instead, he put the brush down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he flipped through your work. His gaze was intense, those fiery eyes scanning each page with a focus that made you feel bare.

His eyes were a masterpiece in themselves, an intense study of Central Heterochromia: an inner ring of burning orange encircled by an outer hue of crimson red. When he looked at you, it felt as though he were dissecting your very soul, layer by delicate layer.

“This one,” Sol said finally, tapping one of the sketches. It was an abstract piece—a swirl of jagged lines and harsh shading. “It’s raw. Honest. Use this as your foundation.”  

“Really?” You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his accidentally. Sol didn’t pull away. “I wasn’t sure if it was too… messy.”  

“That’s the point,” Sol said, his voice quiet but firm. He set the folder aside and stood, moving toward the table where his paints were arranged. “Expressionism isn’t about clean lines. It’s about emotion. About what’s inside.” He picked up a palette, his long fingers deftly squeezing out colors in no particular order. “You brought what’s inside. I’ll help you pull it out.”  You couldn’t help but watch as he moved, each action deliberate and fluid.

“So… how do we start?” You asked.

Sol turned to you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. "You start by not overthinking. Paint what you feel. I'll be here if you need guidance."  He handed you a brush, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before pulling away. "The colors are ready. Paint whatever you like.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the lights and the soft beat of your heart. Something in his presence was grounding, even as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you down to your essence. You took a deep breath and stepped toward the easel, the weight of Sol's quiet encouragement settling on your shoulders. "All right," you said, gripping the brush a little tighter.

"Let's do this.” You added.

Sol’s eyes followed your every movement, unblinking and intent. The way your hand gripped the brush—a touch too tight, almost desperate—and the soft inhale you took before the bristles kissed the canvas was enough to captivate him.

To Sol, it was as though he was watching the birth of a masterpiece, even if the real art hadn’t yet materialized on the canvas. He was utterly mesmerized, a silent spectator to something far beyond mere paint and pigment.  

Then, in a sudden, mischievous shift, you dipped your brush into a light green on the palette and, without hesitation, swiped it across his cheek. The coolness of the paint startled him, his eyes widening as he froze in place. For a beat, Sol said nothing, stunned into stillness. Then, slowly, a small smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, the icy veneer of his composure cracking ever so slightly.  

He raised an eyebrow, amusement glimmering in his crimson-and-orange gaze. “Really?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest undercurrent of a chuckle as he wiped at his cheek with his fingers. “Was that necessary?”  

As he spoke, his hand casually reached for another brush, dipping it into a bold shade of red.  

Your grin widened at his reaction, a playful spark lighting your eyes. “Necessary?” you teased, tilting your head. “Maybe not. But it was definitely worth it. Besides,” you added, twirling your brush between your fingers, “your reaction was priceless.”  

Sol’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing as though calculating his next move. He leaned forward slightly, closing the space between you as the red-tipped brush hovered just inches from your skin. “You’re asking for it now,” he said softly, his tone playful but laced with a subtle edge. “Challenging an artist in his territory? Bold move.”  

Your heart skipped at the proximity, but you held your ground. Meeting his gaze with equal intensity, you let your smirk turn sly. “Oh, I’m not just asking for it,” you quipped, your voice low and teasing. “I’m daring you to try.”  

Sol’s eyes darkened, his playful expression giving way to something more intense, almost… predatory.

The brush in his hand swayed, the paint clinging to the tip as it hovered closer to your face. His voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver through you. “You don’t even know what you’re playing at,” he murmured, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.  

Then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, he swiped the red paint across the bridge of your nose. The cool sensation made you blink in surprise, but the shock quickly melted into a laugh. You reached for another brush, dipping it into a rich green. “Rules, you say?” you said with mock defiance, a glint of mischief dancing your eyes. “But isn’t breaking them half fun?”  

You drew the brush across the canvas instead of retaliating directly, your strokes bold and deliberate. Sol’s eyes flicked between the emerging shapes and your determined expression, his lips twitching with a mix of admiration and confusion.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, the sound rich and unexpected, sending a pleasant chill down your spine. “You’re not only cheeky,” he said, watching the paint flow in deliberate curves. “You’ve got the right attitude for this. Art isn’t about staying in lines—it’s about breaking through boundaries.”  

His words carried a teasing edge, but beneath them was a subtle warmth, an acknowledgment of your courage and creativity. Still, as his gaze lingered on you, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.  

“Careful, though,” he added softly, a smirk creeping back to his lips. “You might end up inspiring me more than the canvas.” The tension hung in the air like a taut string, electric and alive, as the two of you exchanged another glance.  

You noticed the way Sol cast fleeting glances, darting his eyes between the canvas and your face. His expression was perfectly schooled, calm, and unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of amusement betrayed him. You knew he was holding back, his true opinion hidden behind that enigmatic smirk. Your eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of determination flaring within you as you paused your brush mid-stroke. 

You met his gaze with a sly smile, your voice dripping with playful accusation. “You’re such a liar. Just say it—I’m bad at painting.”  

Sol chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that was more amused than menacing this time. The smirk on his lips grew, and he didn’t bother to hide it as he leaned slightly against the edge of the table. “All right,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “The truth? You’re terrible at painting.” Before one could object, he held up a hand, his expression mock-serious. 

"Your brushwork technique is messy, your composition is unbalanced, and your color harmony… well, let's just say it's as chaotic as your personality.” He said.

Your jaw dropped, and a flicker of indignation flashed in your eyes. But you composed yourself quickly, raising your chin in defiance. "Oh, is that right?" you retorted coolly, crossing your arms. "Well then, I suppose you think you could do a lot better."

Sol’s crimson-and-orange eyes gleamed with mischief, and he raised an eyebrow as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Of course I could.”  

Without waiting for permission, he stepped closer to the canvas, grabbing a clean brush from the palette. He leaned forward, studying your piece intently, his head tilting just slightly as he took in every line and stroke. For a moment, he said nothing, and the quiet stretched between you. 

Then, with a smirk, he glanced back at you. “But don’t worry,” he said, dipping his brush into a pale yellow. “I’m not going to paint over your work. That would be cruel.” His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he added, “You’ve got potential. Under the right tutelage, of course.”  

You watched as Sol began painting over the blank spaces on the canvas. His brush moved lightly, in long, deliberate strokes. Each movement was precise, controlled, and yet carried an effortless grace. His hand didn’t hesitate, the tip of the brush gliding across the fabric like it was an extension of himself.  

Your eyes drifted to his hand, caught by its hypnotic rhythm. It was larger than yours, bony yet strong, the veins along the back prominent as they flexed with the motion. The way his fingers gripped the brush with such confidence… It made you wonder, for a short second, what it might feel like if those same hands brushed against your skin instead of the canvas.  

You blinked, startled by the thought, and shook your head slightly. But your gaze returned to his hands almost immediately, as though they had a gravity of their own. Something was captivating about them—the way they moved with purpose and elegance, the way the bristles danced under his direction.  

“What?” Sol’s voice broke your trance, and you snapped your eyes up to meet his gaze. His lips curved into a teasing smile as though he’d caught you staring. “Don’t tell me I’ve already inspired awe.”  

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to cover your embarrassment. “Awe? Hardly. I’m just… observing your technique.” You gestured vaguely toward the canvas, trying to sound nonchalant. “Mm-hm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

He leaned back slightly, his free hand resting on the table as he continued to paint. “So, what do you think? Learning something?”  

Your lips twitched into a small smile, your earlier indignation melting into something lighter. “Well,” you began, tilting your head, “I can see that you’re good with your hands. I’ll give you that.”  

Sol paused, glancing at you sidelong with a raised brow. His smirk deepened, taking on an almost dangerous edge. “Careful with compliments like that,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a playful warning. “You might give me the wrong idea.”  

Heat crept into your cheeks, but you held your ground, determined not to give Sol the satisfaction of flustering you. Instead, you stepped closer, the faintest hint of a challenge in your stance. “Oh, I’m sure you’re used to hearing it,” you shot back. “You’re practically begging for praise with the way you show off.”  

Sol laughed, low and rich, the sound like velvet brushing against the charged air between you. Straightening, he set his brush down and leaned slightly against the table, his gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make your pulse quicken. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”  

Your brow lifted, and you tilted your head, feigning disinterest even as you studied him. His piercing gaze, the subtle confidence in his posture, that maddening smirk—it was infuriating how self-assured he was. And yet, there was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away.  

You rolled your eyes, breaking the moment with a scoff. “Fine,” you said, lifting your brush again and stepping toward the canvas. “But don’t expect me to call you a genius. Not yet, anyway.”  

“Fair enough,” Sol replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He shifted slightly, leaning down, watching you with a quiet intensity. The air between you felt electric and playful but threaded with an undertone of something deeper, something neither of you dared to name.  

You focused on the canvas, trying to tune out the way his gaze burned into your back. But as the moments stretched, your thoughts wandered again. Did he feel it too—that spark, that pull? Or was it just your imagination running wild?  

“Do you want me to guide you?” Sol’s sudden question cut through your thoughts, startling you. You glanced over your shoulder at him, your brush hesitating mid-stroke. “Guide me?” His expression flickered with faint amusement as he straightened, stepping closer. “Your brushwork on our painting,” he clarified. “Are you sure you’re paying attention?”  

The flush on your cheeks deepened. You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts—most of them about him—that you’d completely zoned out. Trying to cover your embarrassment, you huffed, lifting your chin slightly.  “Of course, I’m paying attention,” you retorted, though your voice betrayed you with its defensiveness. “I’ve been observing, just like you said.”  

The corner of Sol’s mouth quirked, a small, knowing smirk that sent a spark of irritation and something else through you. “Is that so?” he murmured.  

Before you could respond, he moved closer, standing just behind you. The air around you shifted, warmer now, charged with his presence. You felt the heat of his body at your back, the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.  

“You’re about as good at lying as you are at painting,” Sol said softly, his voice low and teasing. “You haven’t been paying attention to anything but me for the last five minutes.” Your protest died on your lips as his hand—larger, warmer—wrapped gently around yours, guiding your grip on the brush. You froze, your heart pounding as his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the weight and proximity making it hard to breathe.  

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Just follow me.”  

Your hand moved under his guidance, the brush sweeping across the canvas in a smooth, deliberate arc. Together, you created a perfect swirl, the paint gliding like silk beneath the bristles. Your breath hitched, your gaze darting to his face out of the corner of your eye.  

Sol’s focus was entirely on the canvas, his eyes following the line of the brush with the same intensity he’d given you earlier. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he added another gentle stroke, the motion fluid and practiced. When his gaze finally flicked to yours, the warmth in his expression sent a jolt through you.  

“Pay attention, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You swallowed hard, trying to steady the rush of emotions his proximity stirred. But then his eyes lingered a moment too long, and a small, knowing smirk curled at the edge of his lips again. Finding a burst of courage—or recklessness—you turned your head slightly, your faces just inches apart now. “I thought you said I wasn’t paying attention,” you said, your tone playful, though your voice was softer than you intended.  

Sol’s smile deepened, his eyes flickering between yours and the canvas. “You weren’t,” he said, his breath brushing against your skin. “But maybe you’re finally getting the hang of it.” His low chuckle reverberated softly against your back, and the way his fingers guided your wrist—it was impossible not to feel the heat rising in your cheeks.  

You swallowed hard, determined to keep your focus on the canvas in front of you, but Sol's presence was utterly overwhelming. "Maybe I just needed the right tutor," you managed to say, your voice wavering just enough to betray how unsteady you felt.  

Sol let out a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. "Maybe you did," he replied, his tone carrying a playful edge. His hand adjusted slightly, guiding the brush into a smooth curve. “But you’ll need to focus for it to work.”  

Easier said than done. He leaned in closer, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck. Your heartbeat hammered, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he was. His scent—a faint mix of paint, something floral, and the slightest hint of musk—filled your senses, making it almost impossible to concentrate.  

The brush wavered slightly in your hand, the line on the canvas faltering. “Careful,” Sol murmured, his lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t move too much. You’ll smudge our work.”  

Your grip on the brush tightened as you fought to focus, but it was no use. The combination of his steady breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, and that damn smirk you knew was probably still on his lips—it was too much. Your arm shifted slightly, your elbow bumping against his.  

Sol sighed, soft but pointed, his hand slipping away from yours. “All right,” he said, straightening up and stepping back. His tone was still calm, but there was a flicker of something firmer beneath it, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “If you can’t be still, maybe we need to change tactics.”  

You blinked, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”  

Without a word, Sol reached out, his hands firm but careful as he grasped your waist and guided you backward. Before you could process what was happening, you found yourself seated in his lap, his hands steadying you.  

Your heart nearly stopped.  

“Wha—Sol!” you sputtered, heat flooding your face as you tried to wriggle away. “Please stop moving,” he said, his voice quickly said, almost in a warming tone. His arms rested lightly on either side of you, effectively caging you in. “You said you needed the right tutor. This is part of the lesson.”  

Your protest died in your throat as you felt his breath against your ear again, his warmth surrounding you completely now. Your pulse was racing, your cheeks burning, but there was something about his calm composure—like this was the most natural thing in the world—that left you utterly speechless.  

“You’re too restless,” Sol said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re going to ruin our painting if you keep squirming.”  

“I—I’m not squirming,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you. “Sure you’re not,” he replied, his smirk practically audible. His hands moved to guide yours again, steady and sure as he returned your focus to the canvas. “Now, relax. Let me show you how it’s done.”  

Despite your flustered state, his voice and the firm yet gentle pressure of his hands steadied you, guiding the brush in smooth, deliberate strokes. The rhythm of his movements and the closeness of his presence made it impossible to think about anything else.  

As you followed his guidance, your breaths began to sync with his, the tension in your shoulders loosening slightly. His hand stayed over yours, directing the brush with practiced ease.  

“There,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “See how much better that feels?”  

You swallowed, glancing over your shoulder at him. His gaze was focused on the canvas, but the faintest smirk still played at the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked to meet yours briefly, and the intensity in them sent another wave of warmth rushing through you.  

“I think you just like being in control,” you said, trying to sound teasing, though your voice was softer than you intended.  

Sol chuckled, his breath brushing against your neck. “And I think you like making things harder than they need to be.”  

Your heart raced as his words lingered in the air, the tension between you palpable. But before you could respond, Sol’s hand guided yours in another gentle stroke, pulling your focus back to the canvas. “Now,” he said, his tone a bit more playful, “are you going to let me teach you, or do I need to keep you here until you finally pay attention?”  

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks burn even hotter, but you rolled your eyes, gripping the brush tighter. “Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll pay attention.”  

“Good,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Because we’re not done yet.” Your pulse raced as Sol’s hands guided yours, the rhythm of the brushstrokes steady under his control. He sat perfectly at ease, holding you on his lap like it was just another part of his creative process.  

And you? You were anything but composed.  

“When doing this stroke, pay close attention,” Sol murmured again, his voice low and coaxing, his breath brushing against your ear. All you needed to do was Relax. As if you could do that when every inch of you felt like it was vibrating with awareness of him. “No pressure,” he added, his hand over yours, moving the brush in a smooth arc. “Unless you want to mess up and start over.”  

You scoffed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, a mischievous spark lighting your eyes. “I think you like having me mess up,” you said, your voice laced with defiance. Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s our project. If we waste more time because of you being difficult, that’s on you.”  

Something about the calm way he said it made you bristle. You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his patience as you pressed back just enough to feel the firmness of his chest against your back.  

“I’m not being difficult,” you said, your tone saccharine and falsely sweet. You turned your head more, your eyes narrowing as you added, “I just think you’re enjoying this a little too much, Sol.”  

His brow arched slightly, the only indication that you’d gotten under his skin. “Am I?” he asked, his voice still maddeningly even. But as you shifted again—this time deliberately moving in a way that pressed closer to him—you felt the way his body tensed beneath you.  

The faintest hint of red crept into Sol’s cheeks, and his hand on yours tightened slightly before releasing, his composure faltering just enough to make your lips curve into a triumphant smile.  

“See?” you said, turning fully now so you were half-facing him, still perched on his lap. “You do enjoy it.”  

His crimson-and-orange gaze flicked over you, lingering for just a moment too long before snapping back to your eyes. Something about him was... off.

Not in an unsettling way, but in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. The piercing gaze from those luminous eyes seemed to see more of you than you intended to show. His silence spoke volumes, each glance and measured movement a language of its own.  

The way he painted and the way he carried himself made it hard to distinguish where the artist ended, and the art began. Sol wasn't just quiet. He was quiet. And in that stillness, you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame—a dangerous, beautiful thing you couldn't resist.

You noticed it then—the way his expression shifted, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he took in the way your outfit clung to you, a simple, black shirt with a matching pencil skirt, looking like a dress, more fitted than he’d probably realized earlier.  

“You’re pushing your luck,” Sol said softly, his voice carrying a warning edge. He was stiff beneath you, his posture taut, as though holding himself together with sheer willpower.  

But you weren’t backing off.  

Instead, you tilted your neck and leaned in, your face stopping mere inches from his. “Am I?” you whispered, the deliberate echo of his earlier words carrying a teasing, brash confidence.  

His reaction was almost immediate. The flush on his cheeks deepened, painting his pale skin with a rosy hue that crept to the tips of his ears. You shifted back slightly in his lap, letting your back brush against his chest, and the sudden contact made him jerk awkwardly on the stool.  

Sol swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as though he was anchoring himself. “Please stop,” he said, quieter this time, his voice almost a plea. But the way his molten gaze locked onto yours betrayed him—he didn’t mean it. “Aw.. Why?” you asked, tilting your head with mock innocence. “Am I distracting a great artist from his work?”  

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as his hands flexed on the stool. The tension radiating from him was palpable, and it only spurred you on. His composure was crumbling, piece by piece, and you were determined to break it completely.  

“You’re impossible,” Sol muttered, his voice strained.  

The triumph in your smile grew, and you leaned closer, just enough for your breath to tease the sensitive skin of his neck. “You could always make me stop,” you murmured, your voice soft and challenging.  

For a moment, Sol didn’t move, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. His breathing grew heavier, each exhales brushing against your cheek. You could almost hear the war raging inside him, every bit of his control battling the undeniable pull between you.  

Then, in one swift motion, his hand slid to your waist. The firm but steady grip steadied you as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the side of your neck in a fleeting, feather-light kiss that sent a jolt of electricity racing through you.  

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you pressed back further into him, daring him to take another step.  

Sol’s response was immediate. His teeth grazed your neck, the gentle nibble enough to leave you breathless and your pulse hammering in your ears. His other hand moved to your hip, holding you firmly in place as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one lingering longer, his lips warm and insistent.  

“Still think I’m enjoying this too much?” he murmured, his voice rough and ragged against your skin. Your smirk faltered as heat flushed through you, your ability to respond stolen by the heady sensations he was creating.  

Sol chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your neck, sending another shiver coursing through you. “What’s the matter?” he teased, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “You��re quiet now.”  

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “I-I’m just giving you a chance to prove your point,” you said, though your defiance was flickering with every second.  

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” Sol murmured, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin.  

His fingers brushed the hem of your top, skimming the fabric aside to expose more of your collarbone. He continued his trail of kisses, his lips soft but deliberate, his teeth occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin and likely leaving faint red marks.  

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your mind clouded with the sensation of his mouth, his hands, and the heat of his body enveloping you. When you shifted slightly, testing his patience, Sol growled low in his throat.

He tugged you closer with a sudden movement, turning you slightly on his lap so you faced him. His hands gripped your hips, firm but careful, making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance. His body pressed flush against yours, his thighs anchoring you in place, leaving no space between you.  

The sudden awareness of your positions sent a jolt through you, the contrast between his firm frame and your softness making you hyper-aware of every point of contact. His chest brushed yours as he leaned closer, his voice low and dripping with intensity. “Was this an accident?” he asked, his gaze burning into yours. “Or was it on purpose?”  

You swallowed thickly, turning your neck behind yourself to allow your eyes to drift to the hollow of his throat. Slowly, you reached out, your index finger tracing a light, teasing path along his collarbone. “Possibly… both,” you murmured.  

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could trail your touch any lower. His grip was firm but not painful, his expression a mix of frustration and desire as he forced you to meet his gaze.  

“How long,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “are you going to keep staring at me?”  

Your lips curved into a slow, teasing smile as you tilted your head. “As long as I want to,” you said with a defiant edge. “What’s wrong? Are you going to punish me more?”  

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and his other hand pressed against the small of your back, holding you steady as he leaned in closer. “Don’t be cocky,” he warned, his voice dropping to a rough, predatory whisper. “You don’t want to know the kind of things I’m imagining.”  

You glanced down at the growing tension between you—at the unmistakable bulge pressing against your thigh. A flicker of boldness sparked in your expression as your fingers teased over his chest. “I think I already know,” you whispered.  

Sol’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he tensed beneath you. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a strained mix of frustration and want. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, his tone rough, almost ragged.  

Before you could form a reply, Sol leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, demanding, and full of the hunger he’d been holding back. Your eyes widened in shock at first, the boldness of his move catching you completely off guard.  

But that shock melted quickly, replaced by an undeniable pull that made you lean into him.  

Sol’s hands moved to your hips, gripping firmly as he turned you fully to face him on his lap. The motion was smooth but decisive, his strength evident as he shifted you effortlessly. Your knees now rested on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed flush against one another.  

The new position heightened the intensity, your chest brushing his with each labored breath. Sol’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, while his lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless.  

You didn’t hesitate, your hands moving to the sides of his face, holding him there as you matched his fervor with your own. The kiss deepened, turning messy and desperate, your mouths moving in sync as though trying to consume each other completely.  

Sol broke away for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his eyes burning into yours with a heat that made your skin tingle. “You’re relentless,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his fingers pressing into your lower back.  

You smirked, your lips brushing his as you replied, “And you’re loving it.”  

Before he could respond, you leaned back in, reclaiming his mouth with a force that left him no room to argue. Your hands moved instinctively, reaching behind him to untie the apron, quickly removing it from him to have a clear view of his chest.

Slowly, your index finger drags itself down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. The urgency of the moment consumed you, and your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling at first, then unfastening them one by one with increasing speed.  

Sol groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you and making your pulse race. His hands moved again, one slipping up to cradle the back of your head, the other gripping your waist to keep you anchored against him.  

As his shirt fell open, your hands splayed against his bare chest, your fingertips brushing over his warm skin. The contrast between the cool air and his heat sent a shiver through him, his tone muscles tensing under your touch.  

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your eyes raking over him as you took in the sight of his now-exposed chest. His skin was pale smooth, his collarbone pronounced, and the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the low light made him look utterly irresistible.  

Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk at your lingering gaze, though his eyes were heavy with want. “Like what you see?” he teased, though his voice was uneven, betraying his arousal.  

Instead of answering, you leaned in again, your lips finding the hollow of his throat. You pressed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as your hands continued their exploration. Sol tilted his head back slightly, giving you better access as a low growl escaped him.  

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “And you’re complaining?” you shot back, your tone dripping with challenge.  

Sol’s hands slid up your sides, his thumbs grazing the edge of your ribs as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours again. “Not a chance,” he murmured against your mouth, before pulling you into another searing kiss.  

The kiss deepened, growing more fervent with each passing second. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands silky yet wild, as his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his bare chest against yours, the intoxicating rhythm of his lips moving over yours—it was overwhelming, drowning out every thought but him. Your breaths mingled, uneven and ragged, as you both surrendered to the storm of desire building between you.  

With deliberate boldness, your hand began a slow descent, sliding over his toned stomach to the waistband of his pants. While he remained engrossed in the kiss, you let your fingers drift lower, brushing against the hardness beneath his pants. A sharp intake of breath escaped Sol’s lips, his body tensing against yours. His grip faltered briefly, but his response was immediate.  

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his heterochromatic eyes ablaze with unfiltered desire. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he tried to regain control. “You’re playing with fire,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, both warning and temptation.  

Instead of pulling away, his hands found your hips once more, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to anchor himself. He tilted his hips slightly, pressing into your touch as a shudder ran through him. His challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at your feet, daring you to keep going.  

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your voice laced with teasing defiance. “Then I’ll just have to handle the heat,” you murmured. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you added, “Didn’t you say I need to work on my brushwork?”  

With deliberate intent, you slid your hand along the curve of his waistband, unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. Sol groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest and into yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you impossibly closer as if trying to meld you into him.  

“I didn’t mean… this,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed how much he wanted it. His lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin as he fought to keep his control intact. His body trembled beneath your touch, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.  

Your hand ventured lower, and as his pants gave way, you were met with the proof of his desire. The sight of his cock—pale like his skin, flushed with need, and curve glistening pink tip—sent a wave of heat through you. You couldn’t help but marvel at him, at how his body responded so wholly to you.  

Sol groaned again, his head falling back as he fought the urge to completely unravel. “F-Fuck this shit,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw. 

With a sudden burst of need, he grabbed your hand, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as he guided you to his cock, wrapping your hand around it. 

His eyes burned into yours, a silent plea and a command wrapped in one. “If you’re going to do this,” he growled, “then do it right. After all, I’m the tutor,”  

The juxtaposition of his firm grip and your softer touch sent shivers through him, his body responding instinctively to your every movement. He bit back a curse, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes remained locked on yours, filled with both vulnerability and hunger as he helps you move his cock up and down.

The way his hand enveloped yours, guiding you with deliberate control, sent a jolt of heat through your body. His skin was hot beneath your palm, pulsing with need, the intensity of it making your breath hitch. The sensation of being so intimately connected, of having him at your mercy, was intoxicating. Your lips curved into a sly, knowing smile as you met his gaze with a sultry intensity.  

"Then guide me, Sol," you murmured, voice low with a hint of teasing.  

His eyes darkened, his breath catching at your words. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lose his composure entirely, but instead, he pressed closer, the heat of his body radiating into yours. His hands tightened over yours, steady and commanding, as he guided your movements with aching precision.  

"Guide you?" he rasped, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "Gladly."  

His fingers wrapped firmly around yours, leading you in a slow, deliberate rhythm around his cock. Each movement was an exquisite torment, a maddening mix of control and surrender that left you craving more. His voice, low and gravelly, brushed over your skin like a caress. "Like this," he whispered.  

The feel of him beneath your touch was overwhelming, a mix of heat and tension that made your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. As his hand fell away, relinquishing control to you, the look in his eyes—half-lidded and burning with need—was almost too much to bear.  

Taking charge, you continued the motion, your strokes deliberate and teasing. Sol's breaths grew heavier, his head falling back slightly as he tried to stifle the low groans that escaped his lips. But he couldn’t hold back the quiet whines that followed, each sound unraveling you further.  

The weight of you on his lap, the way your hips shifted against him—whether intentional or not—drove him wild. His hands gripped your waist tightly as though grounding himself was the only way to keep himself from losing control—and you from falling.

His face flushed a deep red, his jaw tightening as his breaths came faster, his body trembling beneath you. His arousal was undeniable, glistening with beads of precum that caught the light as they slid down his length. The sight alone was enough to make your stomach tighten with desire, but it was the sounds he made—low, broken groans turning into quiet, breathless whimpers—that truly undid you.  

Sol’s tired yet desperate eyes met yours, silently begging for more, even as his body surrendered entirely to your touch. The vulnerability in his gaze was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but feel a wicked thrill at the power you held over him. Every gasp, every shudder, every barely audible plea only pulled you deeper into the moment, the fire between you burning hotter with each passing second.  

You begin rudding the slit on his tip, dipping your finger on the pre-cum, smudging it across the tip, “A-ahh…” That alone sent a chilling feeling down his spine. Then you wonder for a second.

Just how far you could take this? 

And, as if he could read her mind, Sol’s voice was broken into another gasp at the feel of her finger on his tip. You smirked, leaning in close to his ear. “Does that feel good, Sol?” You smirked, leaning in close to his ear.

Sol let out a strangled, guttural moan, his body shuddering at your touch, his breathing labored and strained. He gripped the edge of the stool as if holding on for dear life, his knuckles turning white. "Y-Yeah," he managed to gasp, his voice trembling the words out.

"Feels... so good." His head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed as you continued your ministrations, his body completely at your mercy.

As he tried his best to muffle the pathetic whimpers that were threatening to escape his lips with his free hand covering his mouth, Sol was coming undone, every touch, every gentle caress pulling him closer and closer to the edge. And he couldn’t get enough of how your delicate fingers all wrapped nicely around his cock.

Hearing his voice, broken and needy, sent a thrill coursing through you, intensifying your desire for him. This side of Sol—a man usually so composed and enigmatic—was uncharted territory, and you were quickly losing yourself in the discovery. 

You leaned back slightly, just enough to drink in the sight of him, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Just good?” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “Or does it feel better than that?”  

“Pumpkin,” he rasped, his voice deep and trembling with barely contained restraint. It took everything in him to hold back, but the way your sharp, half-lidded eyes bore into him, your smirk only widening as your hand pumped him faster—it was driving him to the edge. “I-I’m close, please… please...” He moaned,

“Oops, sorry~” you cooed, amusement dancing in your tone as if you weren’t purposefully unraveling him by slowing down. 

Sol’s body jolted under your touch, another strangled moan escaping his lips as his grip on the stool tightened. He was trembling, the effort to maintain control wearing thin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last. “Come on… Please…” He whines, “Let me cum, I want to cum… Will you let me, pumpkin?” He begged.

His breathing is ragged, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his cheek, some of his hair sticking to his face as you pump his cock—dare you say, he looks hot like this. 

You grin again, that same slow, cat-got-the-canary sort of smile from before. Are you enjoying this? Maybe it’s just a teeny bit too much. 

“Mmh, I don’t know,” You say, tone light and mocking, considering it while pumping him faster. “Are you sure you’ve been good enough to deserve that, Sol~?”

Sol's face flushed crimson as he groaned under your touch, his body reacting with an involuntary twitch. He could barely hold himself together, the effort nearly breaking him. Your teasing, the way you toyed with him like this. It was enough to drive him insane with need. And yet... he loves it. 

“Please,” he panted, his voice choked with need. “Please, pumpkin... don't tease me anymore.”

You grin, your breath catching in your throat for a brief moment at the sound of his pleading. He’s so desperate, and again—it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Before you get to reply, you are stuck watching, listening to him. With one last stroke, he came. You feel a warm, sticky substance splatter against your face, and you gasp in surprise, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When you open it back up, you see your hands are covered in… his cum.

He whines, trembling under your touch. “Fuck…” He grumbles… before chuckling breathlessly, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. He looked at you, his eyes darkened with desire, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're a tease, you know that...?" he murmured, his voice still hoarse. He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers leaving a smudge of his cum on your skin.

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed at the touch of his fingers against your face. You can still taste him on your lips. “I’m aware, and I love it,” You say, your tongue darting out to lick a stray bit of his cum away, “Such a good boy.”

Sol's heart skipped a beat at the sight of your tongue running across your lips. He could hardly contain himself, his body still thrumming with a mix of need and satisfaction.

"You're... you're going to be the death of me, Pumpkin," he said, strained and thick. "I swear... you're going to drive me insane." Before you could respond, his hands shot forward, gripping your wrists roughly, halting your movements. “You know, It takes a true artist to know how to use their hands,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his frustration and desire boiling over. 

“Right now, I feel inspired. With your body so close to mine—” his gaze flicked to you, sharp and burning, “—you gonna feel so good once I get through painting you.”  

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his grip on your wrists firm and electrifying. Yet, you didn’t back down. Instead, your smirk deepened, and you tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Aww, it’s cute when you get all frustrated like that.” you quipped, resuming your teasing pace despite his attempt to rein you in.  

Sol’s jaw clenched, a growl rumbling deep in his chest as his eyes blazed with irritation and helpless desire. “Teasing me like this,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his need, “You deserve to be punished.”  

“Sorry? Punished?” You repeated, arching a brow, your smirk faltering for a moment as curiosity mingled with arousal.

His hands released your wrists, moving instead to the hem of your shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding it upward, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.  

He lifted your shirt, his movements were unhurried yet firm, tossing it aside without a second thought. The cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Sol’s gaze. His eyes roamed over your body unabashedly, dark with want, his intensity sending your pulse racing.  

The way he looked at you—devoured you—was intoxicating. You felt your breath hitch, your skin tingling under his gaze as if he were leaving invisible marks with every flick of his eyes. Sol leaned in slightly, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers cascading down your spine. “Now let’s see if you’re ready for what you started.”  

The lace of your black bra barely had a chance to tease him before Sol unclasped it with uncharacteristic haste. His breath caught in his throat as the fabric fell away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool air. The curve of your shoulders, the elegant line of your neck, and the sight of your hardened nipples sent a shiver of desire coursing through him.  

You were breathtaking, more so than any image his mind could have conjured. The reality of you—your warmth, your movement, the way you bared yourself so freely—was utterly consuming.

As you slipped off the remaining layers with deliberate ease, Sol found himself captivated, unable to look away. "You're staring," you teased, your voice low and sultry, tinged with amusement. "See something you like?"  

He tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat, his mind blank save for the raw need coursing through him. He swallowed hard, his gaze trailing shamelessly over your body, lingering on every curve, every delicate line of skin.  

He wanted to touch, to claim, to make you his in every sense. But he hesitated, almost afraid of the depth of his desire. The way you looked, so confident and alluring, made him feel as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and all he wanted was to jump.  

Sol's hands moved almost without thought, tracing the length of your legs, the curve of your knee, the delicate arch of your foot. His reverence for you bordered on worship, a devotion so intense it frightened him. He had tried to keep it at bay, but now that he had you like this, so open and vulnerable, he felt the weight of his restraint snapping.  

He was a man who could get lost in his own obsession, and with you, it was dangerously easy. Sol didn’t just want you—he craved you, a hunger so profound it threatened to unravel him entirely.  

With trembling hands, he slid your pencil skirt down your hips, the fabric pooling on the floor with a careless toss. He left the lace of your black panties on, unable to resist the way they hugged your body so perfectly. His lips found your neck, pressing kisses against the sensitive skin as he let his hands explore.  

The only thing separating you now was the thin layer of fabric between you, damp with evidence of your arousal. Sol’s thumb moved instinctively, pressing gently against the damp spot, and the soft gasp you let out was like fuel to the fire burning inside him.  

Your reaction sent his heart racing, his body trembling with restrained need. But when you whispered his name, your voice breathless and trembling, it pulled him back from the brink.  

“Sol,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “Wait… you’re going a little too fast.”  

The words hung in the air like a sudden stillness before a storm. Sol froze, his hands pausing mid-motion on your body. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he pulled back, his intense gaze locking onto yours. A mix of frustration and unspoken yearning flickered in his eyes, the tension between you crackling like electricity.  

“Too fast?” he echoed, his voice hoarse and tinged with disbelief. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re the one who started the fire, said you can handle it, and now you’re telling me to slow down?”  

He let out a soft, strained laugh, the sound laced with both amusement and restraint, as though he was trying to tether himself to reality. Still, he relented, easing the intensity of his movements.

Slowly, he reached down, unzipping his jeans and pushing them just enough to loosen their grip, his shirt discarded in the process. His gaze softened, though the heat in his eyes remained, a smoldering flame that refused to extinguish.  

“This is still your punishment, Pumpkin,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss to your lips.  

The kiss was different this time—rough, more forceful. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw and down to your neck, each kiss feeling like a vow unspoken. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of you suspended at this moment. He moved further, his lips exploring your collarbone and sternum with reverence, his warmth leaving a trail of fire across your skin.  

His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your chest, his touch reverent but firm, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. His breath hitched as he brushed his thumbs over your nipples, the gentle pressure sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with wonder. “So damn pretty.”  

Your mind swirled with the weight of his words, his touch, his presence. The heat between you was overwhelming, your body arching into his hands as he explored with care and devotion. Each kiss, each touch, sent waves of sensation rippling through you, leaving you breathless.  

“Sol…” you breathed, your voice trembling with both hesitation and longing. “Please…”  

But instead of heeding your plea, he pressed forward, his lips finding the sensitive peak of your chest. He kissed you there with aching tenderness, his tongue tracing slow circles as his hand mirrored his movements. A soft moan escaped your lips, and he hummed in approval, his grip steadying you as you began to unravel under his touch.  

He paused only to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with something deeper than desire—an emotion too profound for words.

He quickly shifted you, his hands firm yet careful as he turned you toward the painting you and he both made. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, the contrast heightening your awareness of his every movement.  

He moved behind you, his breath warm against your neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing down your skin to the fabric of your panties. He slid them down slowly, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, before throwing them on the floor.

He forced you to lean on your back against his firm chest, the back of your head resting against his shoulder as his hands stayed on your hips. 

Soon his hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. His gaze locked onto yours, a tempest of emotions swirling in his red-orange eyes—desire, restraint, and something unspoken yet intense.

“Sorry, Pumpkin,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet whisper, “but I need you.”  

He adjusted your position, the shift sending a jolt of sensation through you as his cock settled snugly against your bare heat. A soft, broken sound escaped your lips—a breathy, high-pitched “A-Ah!”—and your half-lidded eyes met his. In his fiery gaze, the pupils seemed to ripple, almost heart-shaped, as though they reflected his overwhelming hunger for you.  

Sol began to move, rubbing cock rather fast and rough against your cunt, his hips pressing forward until he found that sweet, electrifying spot. Your voice spilled out again, light and melodic, each sound like a chime caught on the breeze. His movements became more assured, each thrust purposeful as he reveled in the way your body responded to his.  

He had you now—completely, utterly his.

Your bodies melded together in perfect rhythm, your breaths and sighs tangling as if they were one. Sol’s senses were flooded with you: the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the faint tension in your spine that dissolved beneath his touch. Each reaction, each sound you made, only drove him deeper into the intoxicating realization that you were exactly where he wanted you—wrapped in his embrace, utterly lost in him.

He has you in his grasp, but he wants to hold onto you tighter. 

He focuses on where your lower bodies meet, tongue poked between his lips and furrow in his brow. Drives his hard cock rubbing against your bare cunt, catching the crown into your clit until you’re shaking underneath him. Sol can’t think anymore, lost in the feeling of wonderful pleasure. 

If it feels so good like this, being inside you might be too much.

So close in proximity that Sol can hear each of your short pants. Erratic and almost thoughtlessly driven by one single thing: pleasing you. Feeling each other, all wrapped up together. 

Drawing out those moans as he pinches your nipples at your tits, making you feel how hard he is. How pent-up, needy, and fucking horny he is all for you. Just humping your soft, sweet cunt makes Sol want to risk everything he’s got with you.

The push and pull of too much and not enough at the same time. It’s so fucking euphoric. Your cunt keeps wetter and wetter, and Sol doesn’t know if it’s you or him - his pre-cum dribbling agasint your needy cunt. He can feel your pussy pulse and tremble. Your spine goes stiff, and Sol pulls away to look at you.

You’re so pretty. You’re on edge, in complete bliss, and so fucking pretty only for his eyes to see.

“A-ah, Sol—please, wait,” you gasped, your words trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Sol froze for a moment, his eyes wide and blazing, the sound of your plea cutting through the haze of his need. Frustration flickered across his face, mingling with something softer, something more conflicted.

He didn’t want to wait—couldn’t—not with the way your body moved beneath him, flushed and trembling, your breath hitching with every touch.  

Your mind was a haze of heat and sensation, your body barely keeping up with the overwhelming pleasure that had left you spiraling. And when you both reached that peak together—his cum spilling over as yours soaked on tophim in return—it was a moment that burned itself into his memory.

A first—he made you come with him. The sight of you arching against him, your cries echoing in his ears, left him undone, his breath ragged and unsteady as he trembled, listening to your pretty moans.

Sol’s hands remained firm on your hips, anchoring you as his gaze devoured you. Again, the image of you—writhing, broken, and entirely his—was seared into his mind, a memory he wanted to relive over and over again. His heart pounded as he leaned forward, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and adoring, his tongue teasing yours in a way that left you breathless.  

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I need…” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and raw with emotion. His nose nuzzled against your cheek before he kissed the corner of your mouth, his words pouring out in a slow, deliberate cadence.  

“I want to see it again,” he said, his tone steady but trembling with need. “I want you to cum again, Pumpkin.”  

The vulnerability in his voice stirred something inside you, but your body was already at its limit. You pulled back slightly, your breath still uneven as your gaze met his. “Sol, I... I don’t think I can,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with exhaustion.  

His eyes darkened the fire in them dimming for a moment, replaced by something closer to concern. His hands softened their grip, and he leaned back just enough to study your face, his expression caught between worry and restraint. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gently, his voice quieter now, though the tension in his body remained.  

You shook your head quickly, your words coming in a rush. “No, no, you didn’t. I just—”  

“Then you can keep going,” he interrupted, his tone almost pleading, his patience unraveling at the edges. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and you felt your resolve waver under the weight of his need.  

“Sol,” you tried again, shaking your head as you placed a hand on his chest. “I’m tired. You’ve... you’ve worn me out. And you’ve got to be tired too—don’t you think? What about our project?”  

His brows furrowed as he let out a frustrated groan, his body taut with tension. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “It can wait.”  

Your breath caught as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips again and pulling you against him yet again. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin. “You look so damn good like this,” he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. “Messy and perfect—covered in our cum.”  

A shiver ran through you as his hands explored your body, his touch deliberate and reverent. "How much more should I paint you?" He kissed a trail down your neck and shoulders, his lips soft yet possessive. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your exhaustion.  

“Sol, please,” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction.  

He didn’t respond, his silence heavy with meaning as his hands moved lower, his touch firm but gentle, as though committing every curve and contour of your body to memory. His fingers brushed over your thighs, then between them, the featherlight touch making you tremble.  

When he finally touched you—his fingers tracing over the sensitive folds of your cunt, slick and sticky from your shared cum—a sharp gasp escaped your lips. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he focused on you, his movements both precise and overwhelming.  

“Can you feel it?” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with tenderness. “How much I want you, need you? How much I love you?”  

The words struck something deep within you, and though you were overwhelmed, you couldn’t deny the magnetic pull of his touch, his voice, his very presence. He didn’t need to say it aloud; every caress, every glance, told you everything he couldn’t put into words.  

Sol was an artist, and you were caught in the vision of it—a dangerous one. You’re trembling with anticipation. A sense of contentment washes over Sol as his breath fans over your neck. 

Sol can feel how worked up you are. You’re quiet and tense. Some part of him wants to leave you like that, waiting, but the other part of him wants to give you everything you’ve ever asked for. He gives into the latter because that’s what he wants more. 

He used his free hand that was grounded you to lap, reaching down to lift his now hard cock agasint your bare cunt with a deep sigh, and a pleased hum.

He loves the way you smell, the scent of sex and arousal mixed with the fancy soaps you keep in your bathroom. 

Your pussy is as pretty as you are, a sheen of arousal all along your slit. Your clit peeks through, swelling from need. Sol uses his tip to kiss your opening without thinking. He starts slow. Lays his cock flat against the seam of your cunt before dragging it up and down once, rubbing you again however, this time, it almost slips inside of you. 

You lose a little of what little control you had. Your body jerks back against him, and you bite back a moan. Sol felt that—he can’t get enough of you. Neither can you.

He moans in appreciation, repeating the gesture as he pulls your pussy closer. He gazes and looks down at you. You’re so pretty it makes him want to please. He repeats this over and over, grinding on your clit on his hard and needy cock, throbbing against the soft, smooth muscle as he gains a sort of rhythm.

He gauges your reaction when he tries something new, adding pressure until you’re squirming underneath him. When you start growing noisier, Sol knows he’s hit the right pace. 

And he stays like that for a bit, your pussy soaking more of his cock. He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing his fingers between your folds. You let out a soft "A-ah" above him, making him want to laugh. He keeps at it, his fingers sliding far enough to tease your entrance. Your hole is squeezing without him having done much at all, his middle finger teasing and prodding. 

“Sol stop! Don’t t-tease so much,” You pant. Sol nearly blows again, listening to you talk like that. He didn’t think you could be so cute. 

Sol couldn’t help but smirk, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "But I love teasing you," he whispered against your skin, "hearing you pant and moan, wanting more but not quite getting what you need."

His finger kept playing around your entrance, just kind of going in circles on your sensitive bits. "Besides, it's fun to watch you squirm to my touch," he said, sliding his middle finger into you like it was nothing. It's not that hard. You're so wet for him, it's crazy. Your walls feel super soft and inviting, all syrupy when he touches them. 

Sol loves the way your cunt feels, taking his time to go in and out slowly enough that the tension just fades away. He really gets in there with his middle finger, and when it looks like you're not tense anymore—he goes and adds another one. He's doing both at the same time—and there's this moment where it's just a whole lot of sensation for you.

Eventually, it stops being just a sensation, and it shifts into pleasure. He presses his fingers into you hard, really massaging that soft spongy spot, he can feel you lean forward, nearly lurching forward.

Your back arches, mouth hanging open, “S-Sol!” You moaned.

Another feeling of pride spreads through his chest, his whole body. He wants you to let go again just like this. While he fingers your weepy cunt—he wants to see how far he can push. How wet you can get before he ever gets inside. 

His fingers can feel the way your walls tighten up so hard and the tremors of the aftermath. Your back curves against him as you cum again closing your thighs, hard for him, and he can feel it.

He can feel you cum over his cock once more. He can see you, see the pleasure crash into you like a tidal wave. A second. Sol made you cum twice in a row, this time without him. You practically pry him off as you ride the wave of your high. You sighed deeply as you watched Sol lick his fingers. "You taste so sweet, all because of me~" He breathed out, looking down at you.

“Are you done?” You asked, tiredly wore out.

Sol's eyes darkened at your question, his body still thrumming with a unsatisfied need. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

"Done?" he echoed, his voice rough. "I'm far from done, Pumpkin.” He sits you up on his lap, fixing you to completely lay back naked and beautiful, tugging open your thighs for your cunt to rest on top of his cock once more. “Sol I can’t please.” You quickly reached onto his shaft, stopping him. 

Sol's mind went blank when you touched him, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine. His breath hitched, and he looked up at you through hazy eyes, his body quivering with need. He wanted you, desperately, but he also knew he had to stop.

"Pumpkin," he panted, his voice strained. "I... I don’t think I can handle any more of your teasing.” He said with heart eyes, “Just let this happen, please.”

His tone is so needy, so desperate, and it shoots straight through you, making your body shiver. You can feel just how badly he wants you, needs you. Already itching to do it a third. 

"I-I wasn't trying to tease you,” You whisper, your voice soft and shaky. “I’m just... I’m just tired, Sol. I am.” 

You try to pull back, even just a little, to put some space between them, but he's holding you tight against his back, “We’re almost there. Just one more…” He breathes out, stroking his cock, guiding the tip to your cunt opening, ‘I wanna feel you…” He mumbled, slowly pushing himself inside, “A-Ah, Sol!” You pleaded, trying to close your legs, but he forced them open.

“Don’t fight it.” He warned, pushing himself in. Your cunt squeezes your opening, not letting his cock inside before he goes in frustration while biting your neck to distract you, “Ahhh!” You mown in pain.

His hands gripped you tightly, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. He was completely undone, his desire for you eclipsing everything else, his body responding to the need pulsing through him.

In the haze of his hunger, he vaguely registers the absence of protection, but it barely registers in his mind, overshadowed by the overwhelming need to have you. A fleeting moment of tension flares before it melts into pure, white-hot pleasure, every inch of being inside you sent him aflame.

You feel incredible—like nothing he’s ever known. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer, coaxing you down another inch on his cock. His lips find your neck again, this time with more urgency, his teeth sinking more into your skin as he fights to hold himself back.

The taste of you, the feel of you—it’s almost too much. He wants to make this last. He won’t let it slip away too quickly. Sol��s not ready to lose himself just yet; he wants to savor every second of this.

Sol lowers you steadily until all of him is inside. Your expression is slightly pinched, and your whole body trembles, uncomfortable, almost in pain as you adjust to his size. You arch your back, hands reaching to take root in his hair. “P-Pumpkin!” He moaned. The sensation of tension on his scalp makes his cock twitch inside you. 

The pressure is almost too much, making you gasp in the air through your teeth. You hold on tight to his arms, “Oh god,” You moan, your head falling back. “You’re... you’re actually intense. I can feel...” Your voice trails off, replaced by a whimper. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire, overwhelmed.

Before you get a chance to adjust to the feeling, he picks your hips and slams them back down on his cock without breaking a sweat. You nearly scream, your hands immediately reach down, squeezing his wrists, trying to make him slow down. He gives you a wry grin; he almost wants you to plead for your mercy. 

“Aw.. want me to go slower?” Sol asked, “You have to beg for it~” Your eyes widen, and another soft gasp slips past your lips, your body tensing against him. The pressure and the fullness are almost too much, overwhelming in the best way possible.

He feels so good, so good...

You nod slightly, your voice coming out as a whimper. “Please,” You whispered, “Just stop, please...” Your body shakes as you speak. “Too much... too much at once...”

Sol's eyes gleam with a feral look, his body trembling with the effort to control himself. He pauses for a moment, his hands stilling on your hips, his breathing ragged.

"Too much for you, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse. "You can't handle it, can you, Pumpkin?"

There's a hint of challenge in his tone, a hint of desire to keep going, to push your limits even further.

Repeating the motion but slower showing his hint of worry. He knows he needs to be careful, rocking you steadily onto his cock. The pace is controlled and smooth, a rhythmic pass of your hips over and over. 

Your insides threaten to dissolve him whole, turn him liquid from the inside out as he makes you ride him in reverse, moving his hips up and down while keeping you in place.

He watches as your breasts bounce as he leans forward, his chin coming to rest against your neck just enough for Sol to see the concentration etched upon your face. He watches you as you discover your pleasure in this moment—it makes you look utterly captivating. The feeling of him is nothing short of exquisite.

He shifts his hands to your hips to pull you closer to him, not changing the rhythm he wanted as you hug him tight.

The room resounds with the sound of skin meeting skin: a sticky smack as your body strikes Sol's thighs with enough force. Every nerve in his body is on edge, alive with sensation. His hand glides gently before your body, teasing your clit as he urges you to ride him. 

Sol forces as he feels you again, a new surge of excitement drenching him. He's becoming more sensitive to the times when you approach your climax. Your wetness is so invitingly greasy for him because of him. It is so messy that it's running down his length down onto his balls, turning his pants into a wet puddle from underneath you. 

He feels you stiffen in expectation—little contractions that bring you to the brink. His breathing comes in quick, shallow bursts as he watches you chase your climax, his hands gripping your hips as if to bring you even closer.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the way you feel, the way you look riding him, your smell—god your pretty moans. It’s all too much. But he pushes down the rising tide, wanting to prolong this moment

His voice came out in a strained whisper, his grip tightening as he spoke. "I'm gonna cum soon. I want you to come right after me, yeah? Can you do that for me, Pumpkin?" He gently lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. His gaze searched your face, watching as your expression blurred with the overwhelming sensations.

Your mind felt hazy like everything was fading into a fog, too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts. The pressure building inside you was almost unbearable—so huge, so intense, hitting you all in the right spots.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible, filled with a desperate need. "Yes, yes, I can do that... please, Sol, please..."

You could feel his desire building with you, like an unstoppable wave crashing over both of you. "Please, please, please..." You whispered it over and over, lost in the need for him, unable to say anything else.

Sol's eyes blaze with a renewed intensity, the plea in your voice driving him over the edge. His hands tighten on your hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Pumpkin..." he pants, the words almost catching in his throat. "Pumpkin, I... I can't hold on much longer."

Your eyes are wild, and your body is trembling, every muscle tight and tense, “S-Sol, ah…”  You laugh, breathy. The third time you cum is less intense than you thought. It’s a shorter wave, a softer sort of orgasm that seems to ease you more than it does anything else, more hazely and oversensitive.

But you can feel still his cock inside of you, how close he is, how close he’s been. Even still, you clench around his cock hard—getting so much wetter than you were a minute ago. 

"Ah, f-fuck..." Sol growls, the sound catching in his throat. He's right on the brink now, his body straining with the effort of holding back. And then your muscles clench around him, the sensation enough to drive him over the edge. 

"Looks like I have to catch up, hold on..." Sol moans, his voice a low, gutt, picking up your thighs, “Sol! Wait—what are—!!” He loses himself completely, slamming himself inside you rather rough and fast, his balls slapping against your cunt.

He wants more of you—all of you—after all, you can take more of his paint, you are his true canvas.

Finally giving into the sensation that’s been drowning him, He feels it in his entire lower body. Every atom of him finally catches up to the high of the release. It’s so intense when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out than heavy breaths. His eyes shoot open, then go back closed. 

The coil in his stomach loosens more slowly at first than all at once, like a car crash. When Sol finally cums he sees nothing but white hearts in his vision. He can’t scream, can’t speak—so he holds onto you tight and finishes inside you, cock deeply buried inside of your pussy. So much cum spurts out of him, thick and hot painting your walls, so much in fact that it was leaking out of you, dripping down.

Sol tried his best to keep all of it inside of you, as it'd ruin his version. He didn’t even try to pull out, he rode out his orgasm with heart eyes, still fucking you slowly, wanting to keep all of himself—and cum, tucked deeply inside of you.

The sensation lingered long after the moment had passed. When Sol finally opened his eyes again, he found you collapsed against him—your body wrecked, spent, trembling from the overwhelming intensity.

You felt achingly sensitive, every nerve alive and raw, yet your mind remained a hazy blur, struggling to grasp onto anything, while your body felt heavy, as though you were floating just above the surface of consciousness. Everything was a gentle, blissful silence, a welcome respite from the chaos.  

Just how long had it lasted? How many times had he brought you to the edge? The last time he counted, it was three, maybe more after what he pulled. He couldn’t be sure. The last clear memory he had was of you, twitching on top of him, your back pressed firmly against his chest, every part of you quaking from the intensity.  

Sol took a slow, steadying breath, his own body still trembling from the exertion. He looked down at you, your limp form lying against him, completely drained. The exhaustion in your body was palpable, and in that moment, a part of him realized he’d pushed you farther than he’d intended.  

“Pumpkin...” he whispered, his voice soft and concerned as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer into the warmth of his embrace.

“You did so good for me... You okay?” He waited, but you didn’t answer.  

Your mind was still foggy, still trying to make sense of the world. Words felt distant, impossible to grasp and form into something coherent. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—limp, exhausted, utterly spent.  

A soft, unintelligible noise escaped your lips, a simple affirmation that you were still with him, still connected. It was enough to make him nuzzled you into his chest, his body instinctively seeking the comfort of his warmth of his wonderful creation.

Sol chuckled quietly, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—how thoroughly he had worn you out—and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet pride.

You were his, finally.

He gently played with your hair, twisting it with his fingers, his touch tender as he held you against him, giving you time to recover, knowing you needed it before you two could complete the art project that’s—he thinks that’s due tomorrow?

Oh well… if you don’t wake up in time he’ll complete it all for you.

“You’re adorable like this,” he murmured softly, his voice low and affectionate heart-shaped eyes, holding you tight against him.

All this... started from a simple brushstroke. 

[n7punk]

Tumblr Backup Options: None of them do everything

Cheeky but true. I'll go through what's good and bad about each option though so you can decide which balances out for you.

Covered: native export, WordPress (kinda), TumblThree, tumblr-utils (kinda)

Native Export

If you go to "https://www.tumblr.com/settings/blog/yourblogname", at the bottom of the page is an export option

Once you hit the button to start the request, it will start processing. Feel free to log off, this is going to to take a few hours. You don't need to keep it open. ~22k posts took roughly a day for me. If you have a small number of posts and get stuck, you're probably broken.

When it's done processing, you can hit that download backup button and then wait some more as you wait for the zip file to download. Mine failed the first time after like twenty minutes, and then I had to start over. I think it took 1-2 hour(s) and I'm almost certain that was on Tumblr and not my internet. And that was the zip file! So make sure your computer can be on for a while before getting this started.

So what do you get?

A media folder, conversations folder, and posts folder

Media folder: Every single photo, gif, and video that has ever been on your blog or in your DMs. There is no context data attached (except for dm images which do say which conversation they're from at least), but they seem to be in chronological order because they seem to be titled by the post's ID (the string of numbers in the address bar after "/post/"). They look like "100868498227", "100868498228_0", "100868498228_1"

When you see something end with "_0" and up that means the photos are in the same post, so _0 represents the first image in the post, _1 represents the second, etc (at least, I think).

Conversations folder: HTML export files of every DM history you have on your blog. These are actually pretty well formatted, see example here.

Posts folder: html subfolder and posts_index.html file

posts_index.html: File listing every single post on your blog by post ID on its own line with no other context. Example of a line: "Post: 780053389730037760". The ID number will link to the post in the html folder

html subfolder: contains a submissions subfolder and stripped html file versions of every post on your blog. See below first what the post looks like on Tumblr, and second what the post looks like in the html folder

The way you seem to be intended to use this is to open the file index, select a post ID, and be jumped to where that post is saved as an html file, but I don't know why you would bother when the index doesn't provide any information about the posts inside it. The posts all have extremely minimal formatting. See a reblog chain below.

Notice I said ALL posts on your blog. Photo posts without a caption will just have a broken image icon and then the date and tags. Theoretically, it might be that if you unzip the entire export folder that allows it to automatically link to the image saved in your media folder. I have no fucking idea, unzipping the folder was estimated to take two hours so I didn't do it. Let me know if you do though so I can update this post!

The submissions folder is such a rabbithole I made a post just on it but long story short it's asks you haven't replied to

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't want to download any programs or files from the internet just to backup your blog, 2) your blog is relatively small, so digging through the ID files isn't a big deal, 3) you mostly just want to download either the images (which will be browsable via thumbnail previews in the media folder if you unzip it) or conversation history, which are fairly well formatted, 4) you don't need to update your export often/ever, because you'd have to request it from the start and download the entire thing all over again, 5) you want to be able to read your text posts clearly and don't care about preserving the full formatting, and/or 6) you don't plan to reupload this information elsewhere (say on... a WordPress blog)

WordPress Automatic Ex/Import

Move your post's from Matt's right hand to his left! WordPress (another product of Automattic) has a native Tumblr importer found under your WP Admin dashboard for your site under Tools > Import > Tumblr.

How does this work? No idea! I hit import 2 days ago and it has done nothing. Maybe I'm stuck, maybe it's permanently broken. It says to contact support if it's been over 24 hours but they don't make that easy. I disconnected from Tumblr (you can only port over a blog you have the login of) and reconnected and it still said it was importing. I don't think it's ever going to do anything.

Presumably it's supposed to 1:1 import every post on your blog onto the WordPress site, which will result in a whole lot of stolen art because there's no way to select just your original posts. Also, you'd need enough storage on your webhost to house all the posts (this honestly might be my problem, but I was planning to delete all the non-original posts once it imported.... anything and backfill what it didn't get to). The one thing I'll say about this option is that it's the only one I've seen so far that exports drafts and queues as well.

I mean, if it exported anything. If this ever does anything I'll update this post, but either my blog is too large or this tool isn't totally functional anymore.

TumblThree

(previously TumblTwo, etc)

TumblThree is an all-in-one program requiring no extra downloads beyond the main Zip, and was last updated fairly recently at the time of this post. In order to run it, unzip it into one folder and run the main .exe. It has a full UI interface with lots of very descriptive helper text to help you select the right options for you without looking at the wiki. I think it's user-friendly for non-tech people.

There are a lot of options in TumblThree to change what output it gives you, but I'm going to start with the largely universal parts first:

Everything from one blog will be exported to one folder, no subfolders or sorting. As a result, the output is very messy and difficult to wade through, but post metadata and the photos are named in the same way so you can scroll, see an image preview, and then click on the metadata txt for that post and read the caption.

Depending on your settings, you can export all photos, videos, text posts, etc as their own files or exclude them from the export entirely. For the different types of media posts, you can independently select if you what to download just the media, just the metadata for it (everything that surrounds the post when you see it on Tumblr, such as the caption, OP, tags, etc), or both.

Master txt file: For every type of media metadata you export, a correspondingly named txt file will be created (images.txt, answers.txt, etc) that contains the text/metadata of every post of that type in one txt file. This is also the default behavior for exporting text posts.

Note: for text posts (which includes asks/answers), it only creates a master txt file if you do not select "Save texts as individual files", in which case it will only save each text as an individual txt file and not make a master file.

The formatting on these files is so brutal I won't even give examples, but they're unreadable. Being a .txt file, there is no native formatting, so it exports in html formatting.

Example: instead of a post that says "I want to go swimming", it exports: "I want to go < b >swimming< / b >" (minus the spaces around the b) as the post body, which is a big part of what makes it unreadable, because there are a lot of hyperlinks in all the header information listed below.

Each post in the master txt exports with: Post ID, date, post URL, slug, reblog key (no idea what that is), reblog URL, reblog name, title, [the text/caption itself], and tags.

Theoretically this means you could ctrl+f "cybertrucks" in the master txt file and then browse all your posts making fun of Tesla owners by tabbing through the returns. This is not possible with any of the previous options, and only is possible because it's all in one file, as ridiculous as it is, which is why getting that master file is so important.

For the trick to get both the individual text posts and master text.txt & answers.txt file, as well as my recommended settings and details on how updating backups works, see the read more at the end of this post.

The images.txt includes all the information listed above, but with the following additions: photo url (NOTE: this is the url on Tumblr, not a link to where it is in your folder), photo set URLs, photo caption, and "downloaded files" (NOTE: this is the name of the file it has downloaded)

The video.txt is similar to the above

The use case for this would be similar to what I described for text posts above: search keywords from captions, tags, etc and when you find what you think is what you want, copy the name from "downloaded files" and search your folder to find the actual image

I really hated TumblThree's output the first time I looked at it and then I realized the single file is the only way to make browsing tags workable, because otherwise you would have to have a folder for every tag, and posts with multiple tags would have to be duplicated between them. I'm not pressed on finding a txt to HTML converter right now but it could be an option in the future if you wanted to make things more readable.

Okay, let's get into the non-universal stuff you can customize in settings, because it's like, everything:

File names: We've already established you can search with the downloaded file name for images, but what will that be? Whatever you fucking want. Post date, reblogger name, post ID, post title, original file name, you can make it any and all of these in any order you want! You can have actually useful file names! Personally I like %e_%p_%q_%i_%x which exports as DateTime_PostTitle_BlogOriginName_PostID_IteratingNumber (note: you need some kind of unique iterator to be valid so two files don't have the same name, such as multiple photos from one post). Look how much searchable information that gives me, in chronological order! It decreases your need for the master txt file.

Tip I wish I thought of before doing my massive export: make one of the unique headers from the master txt file part of the exported file name so it's easy to search for it after identifying it in the master file.

Files scanned: this is the only method I've found that lets you back everything up, remember what it backed up, and then lets you add any new posts since that date without having to download the whole thing again. That's a game changer, but see the read more below for limitations.

You also have the option to rescan the entire thing if you want.

Post type: T3 (I'm abbreviating it now) also lets you export just your original posts, just reblogs, etc - again, giving you the most control of any options. It also lets you export replies. I, uh, would not do this because if you have any popular post on your blog it might have hundreds, or thousands of replies but hey, you can do it!

You also have the option to only download posts with a certain tag.

Blog options: You can export literally any blog you have the URL of. In fact, if you copy a blog URL while it's open, it will automatically add that blog to its UI and create an empty folder for it. It makes it easy, no private key required. I do have mixed feelings about the concept of exporting someone else's blog... but I'm also planning to do it to some of Crew-ra's blogs so... my digital horde must grow.

You can also queue blogs up and leave it to run through a lot of them. It is a lot faster than Tumblr's native export, I started this import well after I started typing this post and it took a few hours, probably not all that much longer than just downloading Tumblr's export took (and that's while running it alongside other data copy operations because I'm backing up a lot of stuff right now).

I do recommend doing a test export with a sideblog, I was able to use wild-bitchofthenorthwoods as a test import since it only has one post and it has media, so it was super quick.

(I do want to note, I think the number of downloadable items starts out matching the number of posts on your blog without scanning them until you start the export - but if you choose to export everything as its own file, you're going to end up with way more than that because a post with three images would be multiple files)

Things T3 cannot export:

Since in its simplest form it's just accessing the public upload of your blog, it cannot export your drafts, queue, or conversations

It cannot export posts as HTML files, and thus cannot export them with readable formatting natively

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't care about exporting your DMs/conversations, 2) you want the ability to export only certain kinds of posts (original, photos, using a tag, etc), 3) you want to control the titles of the exported files 4) you don't mind wading through massive folders, 5) you want the ability to search tags (using the txt files), 6) you want the ability to update your export without starting over from the beginning, 7) you either don't want to reupload this information somewhere else, or you want to upload it somewhere that supports automatic HTML conversion (for instance, you can switch a Tumblr post from a rich text format to HTML, same with AO3, so you can put it in as HTML and then hit post to see it turn into a rich format. This techically makes T3 the most versatile/useful export option if you're planning to do anything with it other than browse your own files).

tumblr-utils

Full disclosure: haven't tried this one. But others have! tumblr-utils is a no-UI, python-based backup software. This means in order to use it you have to type commands into the terminal. If you don't know what I just said, don't use this one.

If you do, you'll need to separately download python and youtube-dl just to get this one running. You'll also need to give it your personal Tumblr API key and feed it commands deciphered from the wiki page I linked. Here are two different guides people have written on how to use it. Output:

Obviously I'm guessing based on the documentation, but one thing that is nice is this tool allows you to save each post in its own folder. Presumably each post is multiple files like we saw with T3, so this would make it easy to group them, but it also means you'd have to look in every single folder to find anything.

It seems to break posts up into timestamp folders by month, again, helping with management to narrow down where you have to search

It allows you to save only certain kinds of posts at a time like T3

It allows you to backup posts only from a certain time period (so if you keep a little .txt note of the last time you backed up, you can easily add only the new posts into your backup without having to start over from the beginning)

It allows you to only save posts under a certain tag like T3

It allows you to save only original posts

It's the only one I've found that lets you back up your liked posts

What do I see as the main reasons to opt for this option? 1) you don't care about exporting your DMs/conversations, 2) you want the ability to export only certain kinds of posts (original, photos, using a tag, etc), (okay now we get to the points that aren't also covered by T3), 3) you want posts to export already broken into folders, whether by post or by month, 4) you want to back up your likes, 5) you don't care what file names look like, 6) you're comfortable with the command line/coding and don't need a UI.

Summary:

None of these options are ideal for reuploading your files anywhere (except WordPress), but I do think TumblThree is the best of the options because of the written HTML formatting in the txt files being useful for websites that support automatic conversion (or require HTML input).

For starting another blog, WordPress wins. If it works. I'm trying to be generous here.

For searchability, T3 wins again.

For versatility... yeah you know it's T3, but tumblr-utils has a lot of the same features, too!

For sentimentality (aka conversations), it has to be the native export. There literally is not any other option.

For queues and drafts, the only theoretical option is WordPress. If it works.

For likes, the only option is tumblr-utils.

Every option does something the others don't, so theoretically to cover everything, you have to do all four options. Actually I would say do the native export if you don't have a lot of posts and aren't a freak like me, check it out, and if it doesn't work (I know it's finnicky) or you don't like the export, go with TumblThree. This also means you'll at least have your conversations even if you don't end up using the native export any other way.

And I wish it could go without saying, but don't repost people's shit, y'all. I'm backing up everything for my records only and it will never be shared with anyone else, or even browsed as long as using Tumblr instead is an option.

TumblThree adding to old backup quirks, recommended settings, & master file backup solution:

Adding to backup quirks:

From my tests, when you scan a blog you've already backed up to just add new posts to it, it does not update the master file, so if you want to update it, you'll have to do the steps I list at the end of this post. It might be possible it does update if you force rescan, but I highly doubt it.

If you scan a blog you previously backed up under more restrictive settings - say you only backed up original text posts as one file before and now you've selected to back up absolutely everything - it will only download up until the time you last backed up that blog. It will not blow past where you last downloaded to download all the photos and videos it didn't get before just because they're selected now. This is great for doing after using the master file solution I'm showing below, but if you do need to download everything after doing a more restrictive scan, you can once again follow the first few steps below to do so.

Recommended settings:

This will obviously vary by what you're trying to do, but one or two things weren't immediately obvious to me and I did say I think this was the best solution for less technical users, so I want give my personal recommendations. Settings can obviously be found under the settings button at the bottom of the screen (you may need to use the scrollbar on the UI for, which is separate from the scrollbar on the blogs panel), but when you click on a blog, when you click "Details" in the right sidebar, you can also see your most important settings at a glance and adjust them to whatever you want them to be "per blog". I believe TumblThree remembers what you last used for the blog and applies the things in settings only to new/other blogs.

The thing that is going to vary the most is how many different types of posts you want to back up (text, video, reblogs included, etc), so I'll leave that up to you. If you're going to export a media type, though, I generally recommend exporting the metadata too.

I already gave my preferred file names above and again that's going to be something that varies a lot by people. Hover over the "Filename template" box and it will give you all the options in the legend you can combine via underscores.

Leave "Skip .gif files" off unless you're hurting for hard drive space. This removes all the gifs from your download, and the reason this is provided as a separate setting is because gifs have relatively massive files (at least compared to a text file)

I'll be honest I haven't seen a difference between turning on and off "Group photo sets". Because of the way file names work, most conventions will naturally lead to photos from the same post all being in a row.

"Save texts as individual files": if you only want texts to be saved as their master text.txt and answers.txt files, uncheck this. If you want the individual files I highly recommend you also download the master file for searching purposes, in which case my recommendation is this:

1) Select to export texts only, leaving off all media options, and uncheck the "Save texts as individual files" option. 2) Export the blog. This will only result in two files, answers.txt and texts.txt. 3) Move these files elsewhere on the computer to save them. 4) With T3 closed, delete the folder for the blog and the blog's Indexes (see instructions at the end of this post for finding these). 5) Reopen T3, which shouldn't remember it ever saw the blog and create a new folder for it. Turn on the "Save texts as individual files", as well as any other media posts you want to download. 6) Export the entire blog again. 7) Move the texts.txt and answers.txt file back into the blog's folder.

I leave all other options on the Details tab off, except for:

"Force rescan" scans past the point it last backed up and searches the whole blog again. If you have a big blog, this is going to burn time. This is needed for the number of downloaded items in the panel to be accurate but I don't know why you would care or turn this on unless it lets you skip steps 3-4 above, but my blog is too big to burn through testing that, so if you try it, let me know and I'll update this post!

Master file backup solution:

See my 7 steps from above to skip having to do this, but if you accidentally do things out of order and then realize you still need the master files for texts post after backing everything else up, here's how you get it with minimal pain:

T3 will make an "Index" folder in both the main folder for the program where the exe is located and the destination folder where you have your blogs backing up (note: these were two very different places for me, if you just have it back up to the automatic Blogs folder within T3's folder, it might not create a second Index folder).

To make T3 "forget" what it has backed up previously so it goes through to the beginning and makes a master file that includes everything, all you have to do is remove the Index file(s) for the blog while it's closed so it doesn't remember it anymore. I backed my index up in another folder.

Check off for it to only download text posts, and then uncheck the "Save texts in individual files" option. This will cause it to only create the master answers.txt and texts.txt file on the rescan.

The combination of only going for one post type and only downloading one file for it means this rescan is relatively fast. When you look at your Blogs folder, you'll find a new folder has been created for your blog name (in my case, there was "n7punk" and "n7punk_2) and your output is in the new folder. I just moved it over to the original folder.

At this point you can restore the indexes, though I've only gotten it to half recognize them. I can get it to recognize my original n7punk folder so everything can stay there, but the total downloaded items is stuck at what it was when I did just the text posts. I don't really care, it was mainly the folder thing I wanted to fix. If you have lag between your last full backup and your master-only backup, this might cause some issues? I don't know because I made sure there wasn't lag, so I recommend doing another backup to add any missing items before doing this method.

You can also use this technique if you want to download only your original posts and then download everything else to a second folder. Adjust the setting to only download original posts, download the whole blog, close T3 and delete the indexes, rename the folder to whatever you want ("n7punk_original", etc), and then reopen T3 and set it to download everything and run it again from the start.

[zhbg9224]

I autismed too hard and connected the dots on my favorite video game AIs that sing a credits song

[Image ID under Read More]

[ID: A Venn diagram made out of four ovals, each labeled with a letter and an image of a video game character -- in particular, a character presented as an artificial intelligence. Each overlap with these sections has a heading containing said letters in bold, followed by a description. These four sections are:

G - GLaDOS, from Portal

K - Kinito, from KinitoPET

M - Monika, from Doki Doki Literature Club!

R - Rambley, from Indigo Park

Sorted alphabetically and by number of overlaps:

GK - is mentioned in some scientist's all-caps warning about their deceit; was the last-ditch effort to give a failing company new direction

GM - is presumed dead at the proper end of the game, killed by the player destroying their necessary components, until they're woken back up by someone who regains their powers for the player's sake

GR - harbors a grudge against someone that was once leading the facility they run, although it turns out they don't know all the secrets below the surface of said facility until the player goes looking

KM - alters files on the player's computer via admin permissions, then gets killed the same way; hangs one of their friends; jumpscares the player if they notice recording software

KR - was explicitly made to be a user companion and makes that their mission as they try to cater an amusement park to the player's preference; their friends have nightmare versions that briefly chase you for one scene

MR - expresses that they haven't had a strong, close connection with anyone in so long until the player came despite the presence of their "friends"

GKM - wholly in control of the area they inhabit with minimal human input, if any

GKR - highly devoted to their respective jobs with as little deviation from the set plan as possible

GMR - tied in some way to scientists that want to conduct some unethical biological experiments that seemingly become bloodthirsty

KMR - openly sings about how the player was a net positive in their lives, albeit for a small bit of time

GKMR - A.I. that initially appears as helpful and/or friendly and latches onto the first human they see in a while; gets in over their head with the amount of power or lack thereof they have and strings the player along to serve their ulterior motives by deviating from their initial programming to do things with which they aren't authorized; comes clean after enough people die and presents a scenario where the player will be stuck with them indefinitely until one of them dies or fulfills the main goal; sings a song in the credits where they unload their feelings about the player

End ID.]

[ambers-archive]

got love struck ❤︎ ࿐ ۫ .˚ ✧ ˚　

in which spencer wants your anniversary to be perfect, but everyday is perfect with you. word count: 2.1k cw: purple scarf cameo, idiots in love, fluff, happy ending, established relationship. (english isn't my first language, minimal proofread!) pt1 what if all i need is you (can be read as standalone)

Spencer closed the tab on his computer, a frustrated scowl forming on his lips. For days, he’d been scouring the internet, spending sleepless nights hunched over his desk, searching for the perfect anniversary gift for you. It was your first year together, and everything had to be perfect.

But nothing felt right. Every idea he considered was quickly dismissed. He shut his eyes, trying to quiet his overthinking mind.

You two met at his favorite coffee place, he noticed you right away when he realized you stole his seat. 

You had yourself perched against the chair nuzzled against the rest of the wall. 

And after a week of ogling you across the room he finally got enough courage to start a conversation over a book you were reading. Then with shaky fingers and some mumbling he finally had the courage to ask you out, suggesting a tour of the city since you just moved.

Spencer knew his demanding work schedule wasn’t easy on you. You were so patient, understanding, and kind—perhaps too kind, he often thought. Canceled dinner dates, postponed trips, missed laughs, and missed love were all too common. Yet despite it all, you always met him with a reassuring smile.

“I know you’re busy saving lives,” You had told him once, as the two of you cuddled in bed after the third missed date in a row. He hadn’t had anything better to offer than a string of apologies, and he feared one day it wouldn't be enough.

“Hey pretty boy, what’s got you so upset?” Morgan asked, his voice pulling Spencer out of his thoughts.

Spencer took a moment to collect himself before turning to Morgan. “I’m trying to figure out a good anniversary gift for her.”

In a room full of profilers he didn’t think they’d be so keen on his social cues, but of course they noticed him constantly fidgeting and sneaking quick glances at his phone. 

Emily was the first to find out about you.

The teasing lasted months.

Penelope was rushing toward his desk with her tea in one hand and Morgan’s coffee in the other.

“You have to go all out!” Garcia exclaimed, barely containing her excitement. “Chocolates, flowers—oh, please tell me you’ve got the whole day planned!”

“Calm down, baby girl,” Morgan laughed, taking his coffee. “I’m sure our genius over here has something in mind.”

Spencer sighed. “I want to make it special since it’s our first anniversary, but I just don’t know what she’d like.”

“Well, what are her love languages?” Penelope asked, ready to unleash her vast knowledge of relationships.

“I think it’s quality time,” Spencer replied, a small smile playing on his lips as he thought about you. “She’s always engaged in our conversations, making strong eye contact, putting her phone away, asking questions. She also lingers after dates.”

He paused, recalling the moments you’d linger on your doorstep after he drove you home, the way you’d breathe him in after a kiss, your forehead resting against his. “She never seems in a rush to leave, like she values every moment we spend together.”

Morgan grinned, leaning back in his chair with a knowing look. “There you go, pretty boy. Think about what she loves, what makes her happy. That’s the key.”

Spencer nodded picked up his phone, scrolling through the list he’d made of all your favorite things.

He stopped on a picture of you smiling back at him from the screen, a photo he’d taken during one of your many picnics. Your hair had been flowing in the wind, your eyes crinkled with your smile as you explained the meaning behind one of your favorite songs. It was the same photo that graced both his phone and laptop backgrounds.

“She loves almost every kind of art,” he whispered, his heart swelling with affection. “Renaissance literature, realism paintings, classic books. And she’s really outdoorsy too.”  He whispered, his heart expanding, pumping. thump, thump- laced with love.

He thought about the countless picnic dates, the times you’d coaxed him out of bed for a run or a hike. His mind wandered to what you might be doing right now—your second class of the day had likely started, and he imagined you taking notes, doodling in the margins.

Penelope and Morgan exchanged amused glances, their lips quivering with smiles as they listened to Spencer’s lovesick ramblings.

“Looks like Reid’s got it bad,” Morgan whispered to Garcia, who stifled a giggle behind her hand.

“He really does,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Spencer hadn’t seen you in two weeks, four days, twenty-three minutes, and fourteen seconds—far too long. He didn’t want to waste another moment as he approached your door, your favorite flowers in hand. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait another second, as you opened the door before he could even knock.

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. Every day, he found himself falling for you more and more. You gave him a shy smile, stepping out to wrap your arms around his taller frame. He hugged you back immediately, burying his head in the crook of your neck. When you finally pulled apart, he took a proper look at you, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sunlight. In that moment, and in every other, you were the epitome of beauty—a vision that left him utterly mesmerized.

“These are for you,” Spencer said softly, offering you the peonies. He realized they paled in comparison to you, but nonetheless, he held them out.

“You never forget them, Spence,” you said, your voice equally soft. Spencer chuckled, half-offended that you’d think he ever could—eidetic memory or not.

“I’m glad you like them,” he replied, taking your hand as he led you to his car, opening the door for you. “I have the whole day planned.”

“Yeah?” Your head rises of its own accord against the car seat. 

"I really want it to be perfect." 

It’s already perfect because how much better can it get you thought? You're in his car, your favorite songs playing in the background and his hand never leaves your side. 

“It already is.” You say grazing your thumb over his knuckles. 

You finally reach the place away from everyone else. “There’s a trail nearby and a perfect place for a picnic.” Spencer whispers, slipping his hand into yours again. 

It fits so perfectly.

You smile, squeezing his hand “Lead the way.” 

In a field of daisies Spencer pulls out a blanket, carefully placing his gifts as he pats the spot next to him. You nestle against his taller frame, he smells like sandalwood, coffee, and home. 

“What are you thinking about?” You ask him, he smiles down at you playing with your hair absentmindedly. 

“You. Always you.” You get the familiar, but nevertheless oh-so welcome kick in your stomach every time he smiles at you. 

“What about you?” He asks in return, and you shrug, not able to convey all your emotions. 

“I'm thinking that I want my gifts.” You say slightly pouting.

With a shy smile, Spencer untangled himself from you and reached for the presents. He handed you a beautifully wrapped package and a small painting, both wrapped with care.

“I hope you like them,” he said, his voice tinged with nervousness.

Your eyes lit up as you unwrapped the gifts, revealing a limited edition of Sylvia Plath’s work—a book you’d mentioned offhandedly that you’d been searching for. Your gaze met his, overflowing with emotions you hadn’t known were possible. You always believed in love, but this? This was beyond anything you’d imagined. It made all the heartbreaks of the past worth it because they led you to him.

You abandoned the gifts, flinging yourself into his arms. He laughed, catching you as you both tumbled onto the grass. Spencer buried his face in the crook of your neck, holding you close.

“They’re perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you so much.”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed. “I’m glad you like them,” he replied, still holding you.

“How did you even find it?” you asked, marveling at the book.

“Brittney Johnson—remember the missing persons case we solved? Her dad’s a book collector. He was really grateful and said if we ever needed a favor, he’d be happy to help.”

You smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. You’d spent so long building walls around yourself, convincing yourself you didn’t need a relationship. But with Spencer, those walls crumbled before you even had a chance to put them up.

“I also wrote you a card, my handwriting isn't the best, but I know you like words of affirmation” Spencer said, reaching into his bag. But before he could present it, dark clouds gathered overhead, and raindrops began to fall, dampening the ground.

“Seriously?” Spencer groaned, quickly sheltering you with his jacket. The chocolate and sandwiches were ruined, along with your clothes. The two of you hurried to the car, making sure the gifts were safe, and finally found shelter inside.

“I’m sorry our picnic was ruined, angel,” Spencer said, helping you fix your hair.

“It’s not ruined, Spence. We can have a night in, order some Chinese, and finish a new episode?” you suggested, trying to cheer him up.

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, though he couldn’t hide his disappointment as he started the car.

𐙚 ✱ ❤︎ ࿐ ۫ .

Back at your apartment, the two of you hurried inside, drenched from the rain. You kicked off your shoes and quickly disappeared into your bedroom, returning with dry clothes for both of you. You handed Spencer his sweater, the one you’d “borrowed” long ago, and couldn’t help but smile as he accepted it.

“Hey, I was looking for this,” he said, pulling on the warm sweater.

“Sorry I stole it,” You replied, not the least bit apologetic.

He shook his head, following you to the kitchen, where you were setting up takeout containers on the counter. The sweater smells like you and he thinks he should let you keep it. It smells like cherries, winter warmth and like the love of his life.

“I love that you did. I feel closer to you whenever I wear it.”

You blushed, grateful he couldn’t see your flushed cheeks as you turned to grab plates. Spencer wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“This isn’t how I planned our anniversary,” he admitted, his voice soft. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

You turned in his arms, cupping his cheek as you gazed into his warm eyes. “Spence, it was perfect. It’s not about the flowers or the gifts or the picnic. It’s about being with you.”

Before Spencer could respond, you gently stepped out of his embrace, suddenly remembering you still had his gift to give.

“I have a surprise for you,” you said with a smile, rummaging through the gift bag. You walked back to him, holding up a beautifully knitted purple scarf.

“My mom’s been teaching me how to knit, and this is the first thing I made. It’s for you. I know you get colds easily, and keeping your neck and chest warm can help reduce the shock of inhaling cold, dry air, which irritates your respiratory tract. I even stitched my name on the end, so a part of me is always with you.”

Spencer’s face lit up as he accepted the scarf, immediately noticing how it carried your familiar scent.

“This is so thoughtful,” he said, his eyes soft with appreciation. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been this concerned about my colds. Although, just so you know, wearing a scarf alone won’t prevent you from catching a cold. Colds are caused by viruses, usually spread through respiratory droplets or by touching contaminated surfaces.”

You smiled at his rambling, finding comfort in the way his mind worked—it was like a love language all its own. Chuckling softly, you wrapped the scarf around his neck, adjusting it just right.

“It’s the thought that counts, angel,” he said sincerely, his voice filled with warmth. “It’s already my favorite scarf.” He then brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to them.

It's in the quiet, messy, beautifully imperfect moments like this, spencer thinks: where love is felt in every heartbeat, every glance, and every shared breath.

thank you so much for reading <33

[natural-blogarithm]

my proposal for how to handle surnames when getting married

Definition 1: Let S be a string. We call T a weak substring of S if it is possible to delete any number of characters of S to obtain T.

Example 1: Given the string 'donald knuth', we can obtain weak substrings 'donald knuth', 'dad u', 'nanth', ' ', or even '' (the last being the empty substring).

Proposition 1: Given a string S with length n, there exist 2^n weak substrings. Proof: Left as an exercise for the reader.

Definition 2: Let T = {T_1, ... T_n} be a set of strings. We say that S is a containing string for T if T_i is a weak substring of S for each i.

Definition 3: Given a set of strings T = {T_1, ... T_n} and a containing string S for T, we say that S is a minimal containing string for T if for every character in S, there is at least one such T_i for which it cannot be removed to form T_i as a weak substring from S.

If two people get married with surnames T_1 and T_2, then their new last name should be a minimal containing string for {T_1, T_2}.

Question: How do we characterize the minimal containing strings for a given set of weak substrings? What kind of equivalence would we need to define to consider it unique?

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。here, just for you | bakugo katsuki

wc: 1.0k summary: you give bakugo flowers, and he can’t figure out why. contains: implied f!reader but i don’t mention anything specific, talks about flowers and a kind of early established relationship, just fluff and bakugo getting flustered while going through the motions of a relationship!  a/n: this is aged up to when bakugo is a pro! i envision him maturing a lot and mellowing out a little so hopefully this captures that!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

Bakugo doesn’t know what to expect, stepping into his office after a long day on patrol—actually, scratch that. Bakugo doesn’t expect anything, really, besides his office to look the exact same way he left it this morning: pristine and orderly. 

And it is, for the most part—save for a small bouquet of flowers sitting delicately on his desk. 

It isn’t uncommon for him to receive some; companies and politicians often send them to express their good graces. But those usually go through PR first, along with the many other trinkets and letters received from fans. 

So, it shouldn’t really be a big deal, except, flowers have never appeared in his office, on his desk, with a note written in your handwriting, until now. 

Bakugo prides himself on his good memory; he remembers holidays, birthdays, and since being with you—potential anniversaries too. But there’s nothing, complete zilch that comes up when he tries to recall what today could be. 

He furrows his brows, looking for your contact on his phone. Most of his hero costume is gone now, all of the chunky pieces stored away to reveal the plain black jumpsuit he wears underneath. Clunky boots replaced by rubber shoes he wears more and more these days. 

He reaches for the bouquet while his phone rings, fingers sliding through the leaves softly. It’s a simple arrangement: a few gerberas and tulips standing out in pink and orange against small bunches of baby’s breath and cocculus. There’s a homeyness to it he can only attribute to you. 

“Katsuki?” you pick up, warmth and affection coming through.

“Y’got me flowers?” he asks gruffly, thumbing the note you’d written. 

There’s nothing on it but ‘For Katsuki’ in your cursive. No indication of what it’s for, or why you’d given it in the first place. He’s confused and maybe a little nervous; did he forget a date or something?

“Oh, yeah!” you exclaim, a string of ‘pings’ sounding your request at a video call. 

Lately, calls with you end up this way. For the longest time, Bakugo’s been a text-mostly-and-call-but-no-video-only kind of guy; it’s quick and efficient, gets things done with minimal fuss. But since getting together with you, texting’s begun to feel a little bit insufficient without your voice accompanying it. Regular calls suffice, but you know how harsh his words can sound despite his face saying otherwise. 

Your relationship is kind of old but still kind of new—a few months before you celebrate one year, and he still rolls his eyes (at himself) whenever you do this, lips quirked up as he clicks ‘accept’ (as if he can’t believe how you’ve single-handedly changed his phone habits just like that). 

You wait for him to adjust his phone, portions of his office in blur before he props it against the All Might paperweight on his desk. You continue, “Do you like it?”

He shoves the bouquet into the frame, smothering the microphone until all you hear is muffled noise. 

“Sorry, baby, I think you’re covering the mic.”

He tuts and you laugh as his face comes into view a few seconds later. His eyebrows are bunched together in the way they characteristically are and you see remnants of his black eyeliner smudged across his eyelids. Even at the tail end of his day, tired and just a little bit grumpy, Bakugo still looks pretty illuminated by the light on his phone.

It’s unfair, you think.  

“S’nice.” he murmurs, fiddling with the petals, “Thank you.” 

You catch his gaze and smile, “You’re welcome.” 

There’s an uneasiness to Bakugo’s eyes that you can tell comes from uncertainty, and you give him the silence to sort through it before he lets you know eventually, just like he always does. 

“I–”, he looks to the side, away from the camera. The crease between his eyebrows grow deeper before clearing his throat, “–M’not forgetting anythin’ today, am I?”

You tilt your head, puzzled, “I don’t think so, unless I’m forgetting it too.” 

“So why’d–”, he looks back to the bouquet, sighing, “–why’dya give me flowers?” 

Bakugo prides himself on his good memory; he knows your favorite food, and your usual order from that café you both go to down the street. He remembers that one sunday, during a hike, when you told him in passing that it was the best day of your life. You don’t like fuzzy socks because they make you sneeze, and you’re allergic to dust but continue to tend to him even when he’s covered entirely in it. 

Bakugo knows all these things and makes it a point to because a relationship–this relationship with you–is new and kind of hard, and this is one way he knows he can be good to you.

“Oh,” you blink, before answering so casually, so honestly, “I just wanted to.” 

Ruby eyes stare back at you, a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher swirling in them. His fingers slip through the leaves of the bouquet once more before his gaze softens.

“Ha.” he huffs out, almost chuckling to himself in relief. 

“Yeah, ‘ha’,” you tease, laughing, “they’re just for being you, Katsuki.” 

The look you send him is fond, but the feeling it gives him is anything but. Every time you laugh, and smile, and speak to him as if he is every bit deserving of the love you give, there is a battle raging in his ribcage. He doesn’t know when it’s ever going to stop feeling that way–if it ever will. The sides of his neck begin to flush red, and you giggle, finding it every bit endearing. 

He clears his throat again, trying hard to hide how flustered he feels, “D’you make it?” 

You nod, “Been trying flower arranging lately.” 

“S’pretty.” he supplies, turning the bouquet around to show you. You grow shy, Bakugo knowing full well how terrible you are at taking compliments. 

“You should get going, it’s getting late.” you mumble, snuggling into your blanket, the one he’d left in your apartment months ago. 

Bakugo grunts in agreement, “Tomorrow, 7am?” 

You hum, “Message me when you get home,” reminding him, even though this is routine by now. 

The next day, just like every other Tuesday, Bakugo will pick you up at 7am for a trip to that café you go to down the street. And maybe, on another day, you’ll get him flowers again, just for being your Katsuki. 

[spitdrunken]

Vox x Reader Relationship Headcanons

This post contains SPOILERS in the sense that it is based off of the version of Vox as presented in episode 2. None of the actual plot points featured within are discussed. notes: background vox x valentino / polyamory (reader only dates vox), extremely unhealthy relationships, stalking, manipulation, hypnosis, power imbalance. kidnapping + physical abuse mention (neither done by vox)

To catch the eye of a demon as powerful as Vox is not an ideal situation. While he could be considered more levelheaded than your average demon, and certainly is when compared to his associates, he still has things that rile him up like no other. No, he doesn’t have a whole string of sexual partners to use and abuse like Valentino does, but that makes the weight of his gaze all the more crushing when it does fall upon someone.

Once you’ve got his interest, it’s practically impossible to slip away from him. He’s got vantage points all across the Pride Ring, being able to slip in and out of its many scattered screens with ease. While the usual tracking Vox Media subjects its customers to is already an invasion of privacy, yours would be on a whole other level.

With how inescapable his company is amongst Sinner demons, it’s more than likely you’ve at least got some kind of device he’d be able to peer into. As soon as your phone is being plugged into a port, he’d be skimming through your messages and search history. Though your face-to-face meetings might have been minimal or non-existent at this point, he would already know far more about you than most of your friends. …You should really clear out your search history more often. But, hey, he’s not unhappy about it! There’s no traces of his presence as soon as he’s done.

Vox cares a great deal about his reputation and image. Not only because he’s the very face of a high-earning brand, but it is also simply the kind of person he is. Whereas someone like Valentino might have gone right ahead and shot any possible partner in the head, Vox is much more careful than that. What would people think, if he simply went around and started electrocuting a bunch of unknowns to death? No, that’s just not his way of doing things whatsoever.

Even besides that, there’s also much more satisfaction in it, to him, to convince you to leave them and join him, of your own accord. Vox has always been the brain behind all operations, the meticulous and thoughtful one, the one who got investors on board and appeared in interviews. In other words, he’s become quite good with words, and can easily come off as charming whenever he so wishes. That is exactly the way he will present himself to you, at least at first: a demon unlike other demons, practically a gentleman.

You wouldn’t have known him from his early days, the time where he still made mistakes, and nobody knew his name. When he invites you over for dinner (through an email that you’re convinced is fake spam, the first couple of times you receive it), he wants to appear nothing but infallible and powerful to you. You, who is only familiar with him through screens, as a flawless news presenter, gameshow host, and much more. A smile would never leave his screen, and he is constantly courteous.

He’s got a couple of expensive gifts at the ready as well, ones that hail from his own company. Perhaps it’s the newest iteration in his own line of phones, or a brand-new kind of security system. He’ll wave off any kind of dismissal of his gift, telling to just take it, you don’t even know how many of those he has lying around! Trust him. (In fact, they are modified to grant him even more easy access into your life. A constant stream of information directed at him, with Vox never even having to enter your device anymore.)

In a place like the Pride Ring in Hell, existence is demeaning at best, and utterly miserable at worst, for the average demon. Vox is more than aware of this and, at first, doesn’t even try his absolute best to sweep you off your feet. The power and the safety net someone such as himself would provide would be more than enough for most people. For the average demon, time spent by his side would be a vast improvement, and no one can deny that.

And, in this case, he is most likely interested in someone with far less power than him: you. Whether actively aware of it or not, and if he was, he’d never admit it, a part of Vox desires to be with someone from whom affection comes more easily. And that is… Not Valentino. Not that he’d ever separate from him, mind you, you’d simply be the antithesis to him. If you aren’t, he’ll make you something closer to that.

One of the largest drawbacks that immediately becomes noticeable, is the political target spending time around Vox makes you. Whether he purposefully makes the two of you appear in Hell’s largest tabloid, or only goes someplace where the two of you are sure to be spotted, you’ll surely become a demon worthy of kidnapping after this. It is exactly this, and the fear that comes along with it, that Vox would weaponize against you.

Wouldn’t it be much better, and safer, to stay in one of the company’s buildings? You’re bound to get kidnapped anywhere else, you know. He’s just looking out for you! Really though, he’d never let something like that happened to you. Not only because such an occurence would cause his reputation to take a great hit, but also because he cares! The praises he heaps on top of you are never outright lies, though some are perhaps exaggerated. He wouldn’t spend so much time on a demon he wasn’t genuinely interested in.

Vox, to the vast majority of people, would come on too strong, and too fast. The kind of attention that comes from someone who hasn’t been denied anything in a long time. At the same time, underneath his collected demeanor, seen in his stalking and meticulous collection of information, there is something that could be seen as a glimmer of desperation.

One might stop and think that, if he truly were as capable and faultless as he makes himself out to be, why would he go through all of this trouble? Wouldn’t simply being himself, or something rather close to it, be enough? This is truly where the heart of the issue, his deeply-hidden insecurity, shines through. Besides just the way the thought of being rejected by you upsets him, as well as he tries to hide it, he can’t simply back out, now that he’s spent so much time around you. He’d never live it down.

If, for some reason, ‘diplomacy’ and his usual wooing doesn’t work… He’s an Overlord for a reason. He still has plenty of tricks left up his sleeve. He can manipulate any digital image he wants, including video, without ever touching editing software. Vox can show you the people closest to you saying outright brutal things about you, with their exact mannerisms and voice. All data gathered through the various devices of his he owns, then capable of creating replicas. In a limited way, he can bend reality to his will.

If even that doesn’t work, he has his powers of hypnosis as a last resort. In this case, he doesn’t like having to use them, would have preferred the satisfaction over getting you to fawn over him all on your own… But it’s just so much easier to plant a little trigger inside your brain. For him to snap his fingers, and have you become more agreeable. Your thoughts growing that tiniest bit hazier, your head the slightest bit heavier.

All you have to do is look into his eyes, and take a deep breath… That’s better, isn’t it? What were you even getting so upset about before, huh? (And again, hypnosis is a last resort here. He’s spent so many years dealing with Valentino’s temper tantrums that he’s an expert at diffusing any kind of argument, and nothing surprises anymore.)

Vox wouldn’t be likely to physically hurt you at all. He sees himself as being capable of more self-control than that, even when in the throes of jealousy. Really, the one you should be most afraid of during this entire ordeal is Valentino. While their relationship is by no means monogamous, and it never will be, he’s still used to being the center of attention. He uses violence and unpredictability to have Vox, largely, at his every beck and call. While Vox isn’t used to having denied things, Valentino’s is many times worse about it.

Initially, he ignores you. Designating you as some kind of fling, not even worthy of being one of his whores, soon ready to be forgotten. Vox doesn’t do those kinds of things all that often but, hey, anything’s bound to happen with an eternity of time to kill, right? It’s only when you become a more permanent fixture in their life that he really becomes more of a threat.

He’ll let his temper cut loose, specifically during times where the two of you are spending time together, causing mayhem around the company. If Vox’s attention is entirely unwanted, this may even be a welcome reprieve for you. Still, Valentino being jealous of you should be about the last thing you want. Frankly, it makes you liable to get shot on a bad day, or because of a poorly worded comment.

…Perhaps it would be better to stay close to Vox, then.

[matts-girlfriend]

It’s You I Welcome Death With- Chris Sturniolo

TattooArtist!Chris and MakeupArtist!Reader

chapter 5

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

warning this series will contain, substance abuse, angst, arguing,tension,swearing, mentions of absent family, blood, abuse (not from chris). smut, oral, this is a warning for all chapters

The text came in while Y/N was elbow-deep in books and essays.

Nick S:

hey need a favor if you’re not booked—photoshoot thing for the shop, you in?

She didn’t hesitate.

Y/N:

i’m in. send details.

⸻

It was kind of weird how easily she clicked with Nick. He was the least chaotic of the brothers—organized, sharp-tongued, stylish in a way that made her trust his skincare routine more than most dermatologists. His tattoos were minimal, well-placed. And most importantly: he gave zero fucks about flirting with her.

God bless gay men.

The shoot wasn’t anything major, just some new promo shots for the tattoo studio’s Instagram. She was blending foundation into some guy’s jawline when Nick perched on a stool beside her, sipping an iced coffee with three shots of espresso and at least two existential crises.

“You’re good at this,” he said, watching her work.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

He smirked. “Not surprised. Just impressed. That’s different.”

Y/N raised a brow but didn’t argue. The compliment felt genuine—like everything else about Nick.

When the last flash of the camera went off and everyone started packing up, Nick nudged her gently with his elbow.

“Hey. We’re throwing a party Saturday night. Kind of a big thing—grand opening slash shop launch slash excuse to get drunk and show off our new house.”

She wiped her hands on a towel. “You inviting me as the artist or the entertainment?”

“As the hot girl who made our models not look like sleep-deprived zombies,” he deadpanned. “Come on. It’ll be chill. Just a bunch of gays, tattoo guys, and questionable influencers. You’ll fit in.”

Y/N hesitated. Crowds weren’t her thing lately. Neither was pretending everything in her life wasn’t on fire.

But Nick looked so hopeful. And truthfully, she hadn’t been invited to anything in a while that didn’t involve cleaning up someone else’s mess.

She sighed. “Fine. But if someone plays Taylor Swift unironically, I’m leaving.”

⸻

Later that night, she sat cross-legged on her bed, tossing M&M’s into her mouth while Ava scrolled TikTok beside her.

“There’s a party,” Y/N said casually.

“Are you going?” Ava asked, not looking up.

“I think so.”

A pause. Then:

“Who’s throwing it?”

Y/N didn’t answer fast enough.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Who’s throwing it?”

She sighed. “Nick. Chris’s brother.”

Ava dropped her phone. “CHRIS’S brother? Tattoo boy Chris? 2AM-blunt-sharing, sad-eyes, fine-as-fuck Chris?”

Y/N groaned. “Stop talking.”

“Oh my god.” Ava was fully sitting up now. “You’re going to his house. That’s basically Wattpad endgame.”

“I’m not even sure if he’ll be there.”

“But if he is, what are you gonna wear? Should I do your eyeliner? Do you want slutty or mysterious?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” Ava sing-songed, already grabbing her makeup bag.

⸻

She got to the party late.

The backyard was lit up with string lights and half-empty bottles. Music thumped from inside the house, not quite loud enough to be obnoxious. People were scattered in small groups, drinks in hand, laughter echoing off the walls.

Nick spotted her first, weaving through a crowd of guys who looked like they could hear colors and girls who looked like they were on the verge of throwing up.

“You made it!” he grinned, pulling her into a quick side-hug. “You look hot. I’m telling everyone you’re here to scout models.”

She snorted. “Please don’t.”

Matt appeared behind him, a drink in each hand. “You’re the makeup girl, right?”

“Y/N,” she said.

Matt gave her a once-over that wasn’t flirty—more curious than anything. “Cool. Heard about you.”

“Hopefully good things.”

Matt just smiled like he knew something she didn’t.

Chris was nowhere to be seen, and honestly? That was fine. She made polite conversation, complimented someone’s earrings, pretended not to notice three different girls making out on the porch swing. It was all good.

Until she stepped onto the upstairs balcony and saw him.

Backlit by moonlight, blunt tucked between his lips.

Black hoodie. Rings catching the light.

No girl beside him.

Of course.

Chris turned just enough to catch her watching.

“You always stare like that?” he asked, voice low.

“Only at people who look like they’re about to drop the biggest breakup song of the year.”

He grinned, holding out the blunt. “Come judge me closer.”

She walked over. Took it. Smoked in silence for a second before speaking.

“You really always smoke at parties?”

Chris shrugged. “Better than being outside. Less noise.”

“Mm.”

Another hit.

Then he asked, “Why are you like that with guys?”

“Like what?”

He gave her a look. “Mean. Distant. Untouchable.”

She didn’t answer right away. She usually wouldn't've but the weed in her system made it all the more easy to open up.

“I haven’t trusted a guy since I was thirteen and got left to raise my little sister alone.”

Chris didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

But something behind his eyes changed.

He said nothing. Just passed her the blunt again.

She took it slowly, then asked, “What about you? Why all the girls?”

Chris leaned back on the railing. “Sex is just sex. It’s easy. No one expects anything. No one gets close. But kissing? Kissing’s different.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You don’t kiss?”

“Not unless I mean it.”

She laughed, breathless. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”

“You think?”

“I think the opposite makes more sense,” she said. “I kiss all the time. But I never let anyone get further. Kissing’s just kissing. Intimacy’s letting someone in. Sex is the closest you can be with someone.”

They stared at each other then. Long and quiet. Something buzzing in the space between them.

Chris tilted his head, His tongue swiping by his cheek before he spoke. “So what you’re saying is… you wouldn’t fuck me.”

“Nope.”

“But you’d let me kiss you?”

“Depends where.”

He smirked. Stepped closer.

And instead of going for her lips, he dipped his head to the curve of her neck, warm breath ghosting her skin before his lips pressed right against her pulse.

Soft. Lingering. Petty as hell.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

But then—her phone rang.

Ava.

Her stomach dropped.

She stepped away fast, swiping to answer. “Ava?”

All she heard was sobbing.

“Ava. Talk to me. What happened?”

“Y/N,” her sister cried. “I’m sorry—I—I went to get food and he woke up and he was so mad—he threw a bottle—”

Y/N was already running.

⸻

She didn’t even remember getting in the car.

Just the red light blur of the streets.

Just the fear.

When she threw open the front door, her stepdad was half-passed out on the couch, a new bottle of beer in his hand.

On the floor—glass.

A shard streaked in blood.

Y/N bolted up the stairs two at a time.

Ava was in her bed, crying, her hoodie stained at the shoulder where blood had soaked through. Y/N pulled the fabric back and saw it—a gash just above her temple, still bleeding.

“Shit, baby. Come here,” she whispered, grabbing the first aid kit. “It’s okay. I got you.”

“He didn’t mean to,” Ava sobbed. “I just—I dropped a plate and he freaked—”

Y/N held her tighter. Pressed a clean towel to the wound and kept her voice steady even though she wanted to scream.

“I’m gonna fix this, okay?” she whispered. “You’re safe now. I’m here.”

She kissed her sister’s forehead and bandaged the cut, tucking them both under the blanket like she could shield her from the whole damn world.

And once Ava was asleep, Y/N stared at the ceiling with tears in her eyes and just one thought looping in her head:

We need to get out. Now.

a/n: seriously debating on writting the stepdad falling into a ditch.

taglist: @courta13 @m4gz-png @lezleeferguson-120

@h3arts4nat @izzylovesmatt @sturnioliolo @hsemeria @sturniqloo

@venusbabysblog @chrisslut04 @crazy4weeed @chriscokewhore @chrisswaffles @urfavvvnyasee @sturnzluv @freshluvr @mattthemunchh @poolover123 @pleasantdelusionbear @carpentersturns @emosexyvirgin @emillionaireee @shamelessmilkshakefest @xoxochrissgf @sturniolodollx @joyfulheartwhispers @cutseylady @oopsiedaisydeer @steph1106

@laylaluvsu2000 @lvrsturniolo @chloe444 @yamommmasman @55sturn @whenlovesaround @luvs-booksss @vampyyluv @moth-feeet @cass-sturn

(dividers by @bernardsbendystraws)

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Digital fanart of Kaldena, Temenos Mistral, and Ochette. All images are fully described under the cut. End image description.]

traditional kal hand tattooing, face painting, and clothing - at the request and under the artistic direction of @maverickflare ^_^

[Image description: Three digital drawings. The first is of Kaldena showing off the details of her red face paint and hand tattoos. The rising sun on her forehead is a masculine warrior/keeper of the Flame symbol. The line down her chin is a feminine teacher symbol. The dyed tips of her fingers are a feminine coming of age/fertility symbol. The filled-in circles on her palms represent the new moon and the darkness of Vide. The bracelet patterns on her wrists are a volcanic symbol. The concentric circles with lines radiating out on the backs of her hands represent the full moon and the light of the Eight. Finally, the three rings on the backs of her fingers are a ward against injury and misfortune.

In the second drawing, Temenos is sitting in a chair while Ochette holds his hair back and Kaldena dips her finger into a small bowl of red paint. Temenos says with a nervous smile, "Just so you are aware, I don't want that paint anywhere near my mouth." Kaldena responds flatly, "Boorish nag. Hold still." As Kaldena uses her finger to paint Temenos's face, Ochette asks with a smile, "How am I going to do his hair?" Kaldena replies, "We will just tie it back. It's not long enough to do much else with." Their red text indicates that they are speaking in Kal. Temenos remarks, "Hmm. I know a few of those words." Kaldena says, "Yes, keep practicing and you might even speak like a baby soon. Hold still." She goes through four more bowls containing black, white, yellow, and teal paints. With the teal paint on her pinky, she says with a coaxing smile, "Last chance, Temenos." He sighs, "Alright, alright," and she paints his lower lip teal. A full-color illustration shows Ochette observing Temenos's face with an excited grin as she wags her tail and exclaims, "WOW, Dena! You're so good at this! He looks completely different!" Temenos's paint includes red triangles on his forehead and either sides of his jaw, a radiant crescent moon on his forehead, white dots above his eyebrows, red circles on his cheeks, a teal line across his nose, smoky black lines around his eyes, a yellow circle on his chin, and multicolored lines and black dots down his neck, among other details. He blushes slightly and laughs, "Ha! Do I really?" Kaldena says, "Put that hand down. Are you trying to ruin my work already? ...Now all you need is the right garb, and then you'll finally look like a proper priest..."

In the last drawing, Temenos wears Kal priestly garments. His blue dress opens in the front and is patterned with darker blue crescent moons and a gold hem. The teal scarf around his arms has star-shaped beadwork, and the red scarf around his waist has orange volcanic patterns. He wears a white underdress, dark blue stockings, and brown sandals. He is heavily adorned in beadwork earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, including a pendant with a symbol of the Sacred Flame. He wears gold rings on his fingers and a gold diadem crowned with a large winged sun. He holds a red earthenware bowl decorated with blue flames. Next to him, Kaldena wears a purple matchcoat with gold stripes and white beadwork near the hem and sleeves over a pink dress shirt patterned with red circles and rhombuses. She also wears a short black skirt, white buckskin leg wraps, and brown moccasins with minimal beadwork patterns. Her hair is tied back into a bun with a red ribbon, and she wears silver circular earrings and a crescent-shaped gorget. Finally, Kaldena stands on her tip-toes in a dancer's outfit. She plays a silver sistrum decorated with two humanoid figures holding a winged serpent on the top, and a red string with white and yellow beads at the bottom. Her hair is pulled into two braids and wrapped in red ribbons. Her white dress is dagged at the hem and sleeves, and has red embroidery at the collar. She wears a red embroidered sash at her waist and a red checkered apron with heavy beadwork, depicting blue triangles pointing down to two blooming plants which sprout out of a yellow hill. Her moccasins are yellow with beaded cuffs, and her beaded earrings match. Her face is entirely painted, with white around the center and yellow around the forehead and jaw. The yellow sections are patterned with rows of red and black dots, and the teal swirls on her cheeks connect to two lines that run down her chin. End image description.]

[wishmaster]

Hey WishMaster, it’s spring break now and I was wondering if you could help me live it up as a big dumb horny jock. Maybe a race change too?

Anything that Moves

You feel something odd as you lie in bed. Your ass begins to expand, ballooning out as you chest does the same as well. You leap out of bed and rush to a mirror, you skin was darkening, your body turning into a beef cake As all your clothes disappear, you look at your new massive body, Suddenly your dick becomes massive, at least a foot long and as thick as a soda can, Your balls increase to the size of softballs as it fills with your memories and intelligence causing you to become extremely horny, you needed to get off now!

You begin humping the large column in your hotel room, you BBC erupts covering the column in a huge, thick layer of cum, all you were before today dripped down. Your new life settled into your mind and the universe around you. You were Leon Hanks, the star quarterback at your University, you and your bros were on Spring Break, Your new body made to play football and fuck and since it wasn't football season you had one job this week, fuck as much as you could, you look at your cum covered floor knowing damn well you need flesh and blood next time. You grab some minimal clothes and head down to the pool, you reeked of just cumming hoping the scent would draw the next fuck toy in to you.

Your new g string could barely contain you big. raging cock as you felt eyes on you heading to the pool. You Sat on the edge of the pool hoping for a pussy or a bussy to come offer itself up to the real brains of your new life and body.

[yourfavoritewitchbitch]

It's Called Murder, Baby!

A Scream x Stranger Things AU

Part II

Read Part I Here

Synopsis: A string of gruesome murders takes a toll on the small town of Hawkins. Friends and family start looking like suspects making it hard to trust those who you are closest to.

Chapter Summary: A killer is still on the loose with the whole town on edge. Was this a single incident or is there more to come? Hopper puts his foot down leaving things tense with you and Steve.

18+ Only! Minors DNI!

This work will contain elements of violent themes (depictions of crime scenes, murders, etc) and smut. This is a slasher fic!

Warnings: Minimal use of Y/N. AFAB!Reader. Graphic character deaths/murders - depictions of how they were found after the murder. Semi-Public Sex. Oral (m receiving). Pet names. Choking. Degradation. Smoking marijuana. P in V (wrap it before you tap it!). Creampie.

Word Count: 5.3K

In all of Jim’s twenty plus years on the force, he thought he’d seen it all. Hawkins had its share of crime, but murder was never high on that list. The usually quiet town had only seen something of this caliber once before.

He was here 10 years ago when Principal Higgin’s was strung up by his feet and found hanging on the goal post at Hawkin’s High football field, sliced open from neck to navel like a freshly killed deer ready for processing. It was gruesome and bloody. They had never seen anything like it and hoped they’d never have to deal with something like it again.

The murders of Jason and Chrissy brought a whole new meaning to what he’d thought he’d seen.

Jason was found tied to a chair. He had been stabbed at least ten times before his throat ultimately slit. They were still unsure if he was already dead before his neck was reached.

Chrissy was found a few feet away, strung up by her feet. Rope tied to the second-floor landing, extending over the living room. In eerily similar fashion to that murder 10 years ago, she was also gutted.

It was as if Jason had been made to watch. This was brutal and seemed personal.

He had the file spread out across his desk, looking and relooking at all the evidence as he reached for another smoke. He’d been chain smoking since he’d left the crime scene this morning.

It was now well past two in the afternoon, and he was no closer to figuring this shit out. It was going to be a long night.

A knock came at his door followed by Deputy Callahan poking his head in.

“Yeah?” Came his gruff voice, already irritated by the younger man’s presence. Callahan was a constant pest.

“Hey Sheriff, uh, sorry to bother you, but I thought you might like to see today’s paper.” The shit eating smirk on his face told a different story.

Callahan waltzes over, handing him the latest edition.

He read the headline and briefly skimmed the article underneath.

“Meeting, now!” He finally huffed, reddened face on display. Callahan didn’t miss a beat.

“On it, sir.”

It wasn’t unusual to have an “emergency” meeting at the station, especially with the way the morning had gone.

Steve was settled at his desk, Robin was sitting across from him rambling about something he wasn’t paying much attention to, still too distracted by the evidence before him. Looking at it all as if he would magically see something they had missed.

Callahan hadn’t even bothered knocking, door opening with a crooked grin.

“Meeting, Sheriff’s office. Now.”

Robin looked at Steve and shrugged.

Everyone shuffled into the room, cramming into the corners trying to fit into the small office.

Hopper was unusually quiet, not meeting anyone’s gaze as they filed in. Steve immediately clocked the newspaper he had folded in his hand.

Powell was the last, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicked into place Hopper spoke up.

“I don’t think I should have to remind you all how delicate a case like this is.” Everyone nodded in agreement as he finally looked around.

“Yes. Yes, sir. Yes, Sheriff.” Came from around the room.

“So, who the fuck talked to the press?” He threw the paper on the desk, unfurling to reveal the headline. His finger pinning it and pointing to your article.

Steve maintained his composure, but he wanted to rip his hair out. He hadn’t seen the paper yet, so he stepped up reading the contents, Robin shuffled right in beside him.

His jaw tightened. He hadn’t told you anything about the mask they had found.

A few more seconds ticked by. Steve finally stepped back catching Callahan looking straight at him, that same smirk plastered to his face from earlier.

Little Fucker, Steve thought.

Jim groaned as he sat back down, before finally speaking again. “Powell, Callahan. Get out and close the door.”

Wasting no time, quickly doing as they were told to make sure to stay on Hopper’s good side. Callahan skirted past Steve, smiling as he went. Steve was already seething with his fists clenched tightly to his sides. If looks could kill, the other would have been a dead man.

Robin clutched the paper reading it more carefully, as she took the seat in front of his desk.

Steve strolled up behind her, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Look,” Jim sighed, looking right at him. “I don’t care what the hell you do after hours but do not let it interfere with my investigation.”

“Hop,” Robin went to interject but was quickly cut off.

“Let me finish,” She snapped her mouth shut and nodded. “Unfortunately, I know it had to have been one of you. No one outside of this room knew about that goddamn mask.”

He let his words wash over them both. Robin’s shoulders sank as she sat further into her seat. He noticed Steve’s jaw clench.

“Callahan had a run in with her here today in the station. Care to explain?” He sat back, reaching for yet again for another smoke. Joyce would kill him if she knew how many he’d had today.

“Hop, I swear,” Robin was the first to crack, always was. “She just came in for a visit. We had coffee…” She trailed off when she felt Steve’s hand rest on her shoulder.

“She came in to talk to me,” Steve looked Jim in the eye as he spoke. “But I swear to God I didn't say a word about that fucking mask.”

Hopper sighed; he knew Steve would never undermine him like that.

He nodded. “No more press in the station until this shit is over. Not even her.”

“Yes sir,” they stated in unison.

“Ok then, who else could have known?”

Steve trudged out of Hopper's office in a huff, with Robin hot on his heels as she followed him back into his office, shutting the door behind them.

“Steve,” she started.

“Don't.” He sat down, with a sigh as he opened the folder once again in front of him and rubbed his hands down his face.

“You didn't tell her that, did you?” She asked quietly before taking the chair in front of him, eyes worrying over him. Surely, he wasn't that stupid?

“Of course not,” he scoffed, incredulously. “You know better than that.”

“Right, yeah, I know… but you two are… close.” She wouldn’t dare meet his eyes after it slipped out.

“Close, yeah. But I wouldn't jeopardize an investigation like that.” She nodded, as he got up wearily from his seat.

‘Hey, where are you going?” She shouted as he was halfway out the door.

“To get some answers.”

The copier was currently holding your paper hostage, as it got lodged in the rollers. Cursing the damn thing as you started the process of digging it out.

Nancy walked by just in time to see you struggling.

“There you are, heads up. Trouble is headed this way.” You looked over her shoulder in time to catch Steve's stern face looking right at you as he stepped through the door.

“Shit,” you breathed out.

She gave you a wry, pitying look before leaving you to it.

“Hey Steve, I…” you began, but he grabbed your bicep pulling you along with him, giving you no choice but to follow. He dragged you into the small conference room down the hall in which you two frequently met.

Only letting you go once you were both in, shutting the door. He was unusually quiet, eyes lingering down as if contemplating what needed to be said.

“So, I take it, you've seen the paper?” You asked softly.

He nodded, “Who told you about the mask?”

You knew it would come, but you were prepared.

“It was an anonymous source, and I took the chance.” You shrugged.

“Anonymous source? Who?” He narrowed his gaze, but you stood your ground, standing up a little straighter crossing your arms over your chest.

“I don't know, Steven, it was an anonymous tip. They didn't quite let me catch their name before they hung up.”

“Right, like you don't know. So why would you run it if you didn't know if it was true?” He stepped closer into your space.

“I just had a gut feeling. Looks like I was right if you're here.” Gesturing toward him.

He planted his hands on his hips, looking down his nose at you trying to look intimidating, only managing to turn you on instead.

“Yeah, and now Hop is on my ass thinking that I leaked it. You sure you didn't see something in that file on my desk?”

“And when would I have done that? While I was in your lap, and you were balls deep? You were there too. I didn't snoop in your fucking file.” You start turning away from him, tired of the questioning.

“Wait, look,” his hand wraps softly around your wrist, catching you from moving too far away from him.

“I'm sorry, I know you didn't snoop. This is just a big case, Hops worried about making sure it isn't fucked up.” You nodded, secretly relishing the way you could easily get him worked up and then he’s always the first to apologize.

“I know Steve, I wouldn't do something to compromise your job. You should know that.”

He absentmindedly bit his lower lip, his mind in overdrive once again.

“I've got to get back to the Station. I'll be there late tonight.”

He turned and headed back out into the newsroom. Turning heads as he went, permanent scowl etched onto his face.

It was getting late in the evening, around 8 pm. Eddie should have been by to pick you up at 6 but had called earlier saying he was running late.

“Sorry sweetheart, boss wants me to stay and finish up this last car that came in today.” He had said.

You were the only one left in the building. Nancy had offered to take you home, but you didn't want to be an inconvenience.

You were doing some research on another story Tom had assigned you, paying little attention to anything else around you.

The doors were locked. All the lights were low except the one still at your desk, head buried in a pile of copy you were looking over.

It was then you heard a sharp screech, as if a door creaked open making your head shoot up. You stood, walking slowly to the doorway leading to the back of the building, listening closely for any other sounds.

You rounded the corner that led to a narrow hall, and beyond that was the back of the building. There was only one exit door in the back, and you were sure that Tom had locked it on his way out.

“Hello? Is someone there?” You shouted down the darkened hall. No sounds or movements from that direction. Heart beating heavy in your chest as your eyes adjusted to see further into the dark but there was nothing and no one.

“Shit, get a grip.” You hissed to yourself.

You turned to go back to your desk, bumping into something very solid, as you jumped and let out a small squeak of surprise. His hand wrapping around your waist, steading you. Looking up into a familiar face with deep hazel eyes immediately calmed your now jangled nerves.

“Shit Steve, you didn’t have to sneak up on me.” Your heart still beating rapidly.

“I was checking the doors. The back was unlocked. Why aren’t you being more careful? There's still a killer on the loose.” He looked worried then, always caring about your well-being. He brushed the loose strands of hair behind your ear that had fallen after a long day, cupping your cheek in the process.

“Good thing I have a big, bad Sheriff to keep an eye out for me.” You smiled, as his gaze softened.

“Eddie coming to pick you up?” He whispered, inching closer to you. Crowding into you even further, closing the distance, pushing you into the wall as your back came to rest against it.

You nod. “He's just running a little late.”

“I’d never keep you waiting,” he mumbled against your lips, letting them finally meld into yours as you hummed in response, he let his other hand meet your hip, pulling you back into him.

“Stevie, I… I can't. He'll be here any minute.” You breathed out, pushing him away slightly.

He nodded, kissing your forehead tenderly before pulling completely away, immediately missing the warmth his body provided.

“Steve, wait, I'm sorry about the paper. Sometimes I just get ahead of myself and don't think about who else it might affect.” You placed your palm to his cheek, forcing his eyes on you.

Your other hand trailed the length of his shirt, past his belt, firmly cupping his bulge as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“I don't have a lot of time, but I could still make it up to you.” You whispered, looking up at him innocently.

“Let me make it up to you.” You gripped the front of his shirt, as he held out his hand to help lower you to the floor.

Your knees hit the hard linoleum with a small thump, as he allowed himself to bump into the wall behind him.

He looked down at you with an affection that suddenly made your chest ache. You were expecting lust, not his doe eyes sparkling in the low light.

He removed his duty belt, sitting it on the table to the side of you.

“Stevie, don't look at me like that.”

“Like what, honey?”

You looked ahead, choosing to ignore him instead, popping the button on his slacks and undoing his zipper slowly, his cock beginning to strain against his confinements as you reached into his briefs, fingers wrapping around the base. He let out a small moan, as he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall.

His cock kicked up with your touch, engorging further, growing to his full length before your eyes. You licked your lips as your mouth began to salivate.

You moved your hand up his velvety length, collecting the growing bead of pearlescent precum at his slit, letting your thumb slowly spread it across his head before bringing it back down.

“Fuck,” he moaned out, every touch sending electricity through his veins, as if he hadn't already been inside of you earlier today.

You held his base, and kitten licked at his head, eliciting more breathy moans as you began to kiss up and back down his hard cock at a torturous pace before finally wrapping your lips around his head, swirling your tongue and sucking lightly before taking as much of him into your mouth that you could fit. Slowly bobbing your head and then picking up the pace, working in tandem with the hand wrapped around the rest of him.

You gagged just a bit, when he nudged the back of your throat a little too hard from your own eagerness.

He looked back down at the sound, cupping your cheek gently, thumb softly caressing you,

“Hey, hey take it easy baby doll. Can't make a mess of this pretty little face right now. Just take it easy honey.”

You nodded, bobbing your head slowly once again.

“That's it baby doll. Slow and steady now.”

You free hand toys with his balls, rolling them deftly between your fingers.

“Oh shit, yeah. Just like that baby.” He cooed.

You speed up your movements on his length, feeling his sack tense and draw up a bit from the change in pace.

“That's it, baby doll, I'm about to cum already. Can I cum in that pretty mouth?”

You nodded as he grunted and spilled down your throat, relaxing a bit more so you could swallow as much as possible. The salty, tangy taste had you humming around him.

His cock twitched once more before stilling, as you moved off of him with a slight pop, wiping the drool and any of him that escaped down the side of your mouth. You wrapped your lips around your finger, licking it off, not letting a single drop go to waste.

“C’mere,” giving you his hand once again to help you up, winching as you felt the pain in your knees from being in the latter position.

“I…” you were about to speak, as headlights cut through the blinds, illuminating you both.

“Shit,” he hissed, drawing back, putting himself away and grabbing for his belt before securing it back around his waist.

“It's Eddie. He'll be ok for a few minutes.” You straightened your rumpled shirt, smoothing some errant stray hairs back into place.

You grabbed your purse, as he finished fixing his clothes.

“Come on, I'll have to lock up behind you. Walk me out.”

He followed closely, Eddie's eyes cut to the both of you upon exit, taking a slow drag of the cigarette held tightly between his lips.

He rolled down his window as you cut in front of the van to climb into the passenger seat.

“Evening Harrington,” he grinned. “Out on patrol?”

Steve glared, licking his lips before striding up the van, clearing his throat a bit.

“Eddie,” nodding toward the other man. “Just checking some doors around town. Y/N would forget her head sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he clicked his tongue, “yeah she would.” He looked over to you as you rolled your eyes back at him. You leaned over as he met you halfway placing a soft kiss to his lips.

“Thanks for checking on me Steve.” Throwing him a soft smile and wink, sitting back into the seat as your seatbelt clicked into place.

Eddie smirked, tapping his fingers against the top of the door. Steve caught sight of the newly formed bruises and scratches there.

“Yeah, Steve,” grabbing your hand from the console, pulling it in for a soft kiss, before turning back to him, “thanks for checking on my girl.”

“No problem. Nasty cuts you got there.” Nodding his chin toward them.

Eddie flexed his hand, “Yeap, caught it on a bitch of a radiator yesterday.”

Steve, growing tired of the awkward small talk, decided to take his leave.

“Well, you two be careful.” Patting the side of the van, turning back in the direction of the station.

“See ya’ around Stevie.” Eddie called out, chuckling loudly, sliding the gear shift into reverse, backing out from his spot.

“You don't have to be rude to him.” You scolded as he pulled out onto the road.

“He's just so easy to fuck with babe. I can't help it. Especially when he's so smug thinking you two are cheating behind my back.” He laughed deeply.

“He’s not smug about it. He worries about you catching us all the time.”

“Good. He should be.”

Eddie took a left, instead of the right back to your house.

“Where are we going?” You asked but he didn't answer right away, grin only growing wider, more devilish looking.

“Don't worry baby, it's a nice night for a drive. Thought we might go parking.”

“Parking, huh? Wanna do it in the back of the van, like in high school?” You comically lifted your brow. “How romantic.”

“I'm just kidding, unless you wanna?” Wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, that had you laughing.

It was always the little moments with Eddie. He'd know exactly how to make you laugh or quell your nerves after a long day. You trusted him wholly.

“I wanted to take you to a spot I found the other day. Wanted to share a joint and see where the night takes us.”

“You do know there's a killer on the loose, right?”

“You got nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. You're safe with me.” Somehow you knew he was telling the truth.

He took you further out of the main city, a few more twists and turns, you were thoroughly lost. Never one with a good sense of direction. Kicking your heels off and tossing them in the back, you got more comfortable, pulling your legs under you.

Asphalt turned into gravel, as he slowed to a roll, finally throwing the van into park at a clearing.

You looked out the windshield, it was a clear night. Moon brightly reflecting off of Lover's Lake, small waves cresting on the shore in front of you.

Though this wasn't a new spot like he'd said, it was your spot. You recognized the big tree directly by the lake.

“Surprise,��� he sang out.

“This isn't a new spot, Eddie.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Sue me.” He laughs, digging into the pocket of his jumpsuit, producing a pre-rolled joint, bringing it to his lips.

“You’ve been a naughty girl today.” Stating it matter-of-factly. Lighting the end, sucking lightly until he knows it's lit.

He looks at you, eyes hooded, dropping his voice a little deeper. “Haven't you sweetheart?”

His words ignited your core. You knew that tone well.

He offered it to you, taking it gingerly, bringing it to your own lips inhaling the sweet strain as he intensely watched your movements.

“And you,” pointing over at him, “have always been a very jealous boyfriend.”

He scoffs, taking it back from you, letting it wash over him.

“If I was jealous, I wouldn't let you whore around with him all over town.”

You laughed out, clear and bright as the weed began to flow through your system.

“Let's get one thing straight, you've never told me to do anything in this relationship. I do what I want.”

He slowly places the joint in the ashtray, and then moves quickly before you have time to react, pinning you by the throat pushing you into the passenger seat, rings biting into the tender flesh. You gasped out, reaching up to grab his hand.

“Sweetheart, maybe it's time to put that mouth to some good use.” He whispered close to your ear.

“Maybe I already did.” You grinned wickedly at him.

“You little whore, kissing me with that mouth after his cock’s been shoved halfway down your throat?” His fingers tightened, as you nodded.

“Bet his cum’s still lingering on your tongue. Huh?”

“Mmmmm, yeah baby. He finished right before you pulled in to pick me up.”

He removed his hand from your throat to pinch your cheeks harshly, forcing your lips into a sweet pout, as he roughly brings his lips to yours, you close your eyes, humming in contentment.

You felt him smirk against you, pulling back slightly, “You’re fucking filthy baby. How'd I get so lucky? Hey, look at me.” You snapped your eyes open to see his own blown wide with lust, so dark they were almost black.

“Get in the back. Take your clothes off.”

You didn't hesitate, as he finally released you, climbing over the console as quickly as you could. He picked up what was left of his joint, inhaling deeply, letting it sit in his lungs a moment before exhaling.

Eddie kept the back of the van clean, a spare blanket folded into the corner just for occasions like this to save your knees or ass from a wicked carpet burn. You had learned from experience.

You carefully unfolded it and smoothed out the edges. He was still smoking and concentrating on the water beyond the window, like his mind was elsewhere.

Unbuttoning your blouse, and quickly shimmying out of your skirt leaving you in just your panties and bra you laid down, awaiting your next instruction.

“I said take your clothes off. That means everything.” He spoke without looking back.

You quickly shed the offending articles.

“Good girl.” He purred, finally facing you to get a good look.

“Open your legs, yeah, that's it baby.” He had a perfect view of your cunt, untouched but already dripping.

“Go ahead, touch yourself f’me.” Slowly reaching down between your thighs, taking some slick from your leaking hole, bringing it back up as you slowly start to draw circles around your clit.

“Oooooh, Eddie,” you moaned, throwing your head back at the feeling, already worked up from sucking Steve off.

“Eyes on me baby.” You look up just in time to see him pushing his coveralls past his hips, his cock straining his boxers. He pulled those down slightly, freeing his already hard cock.

It had you licking your lips at the sight. He didn’t quite have the girth that Steve does, but he was just a little longer, with a slight curve upward.

He spit in his hand before wrapping it around the base, hissing out, sliding it up and back down, setting a slow pace as he watched you torturously toy with your bundle of nerves.

“That's it sweetness, go ahead finger fuck that tight pussy.” Moving your fingers down, you easily slid two in, whining out and arching your back. You began to rock your palm into your clit as your fingers slid in and out.

“Bet you wish that was my cock instead? Huh?” You nodded, mouth going slack at the feeling as another whine escaped but you needed more. You needed him.

“Please, Eds. I need your cock. I need you to fuck me.”

“Jesus, you are a greedy whore. Two of your holes stuffed already today and you still want more?” He chuckled but opened his door exiting to move around to the back. He didn’t intend to leave you hanging. He needed your cunt wrapped around him just as much as you needed him to fill you.

The back doors opened with a flush of cold air, as he quickly worked to push his coveralls down climbing in to meet you, shutting the door behind him. He removed his shirt and threw it in the corner to meet your own pile of clothes.

You turned yourself around to face him, as he crawls in-between your thighs, pushing them further apart as he made his way up.

He trailed hot, open mouth kisses along your sternum before turning his attention to your pebbled nipples. Quickly drawing one into his mouth, sucking sharply. Palming your neglected breast with his free hand.

“Oh Eddie,” you thread your fingers in his hair, tightening your grip on his curls when you feel him bite down.

“Oh fuck!” You squealed, as he releases his mouth, bringing it to the other repeating the same motions.

He continued his journey upward, laving his tongue up your breasts, neck and jaw.

His arms finally cage you in, as his body pushes you further into the floor. You wrap your legs around his lithe waist, as he pushes his hips down, rolling them into yours letting his cock brush through your folds.

“Eddie, please.” You gripped his shoulders, throwing your head back as his ruddy tip nudged your clit, sending sparks through your core and up your spine.

“Eddie, please.” He mocked, high pitched and whiny. His lips kissed up your jaw as he found the shell of your ear. “Such a needy little whore.”

He braced himself with one arm by your head, taking his length with the other bringing his leaking tip to your entrance.

He caught your entrance and slightly pushed in, but it already has you arching into him. He watches himself slowly disappear into your tight heat, inch by inch.

“Fuck, baby. She's sucking me in. So, fucking tight.” He lowers his forehead to yours savoring the sensation for a moment, before he quickly grips your thigh, pushing it higher onto his hip as he's pulling almost all the way out, just to sink straight back in.

“Oh fuck… mmmmm… Eddie.”

He rocks his hips back and forth, setting a now brutal pace that has you both moaning and crying out.

He then ceases his movements momentarily, pulling up slightly, only to push your knees to your chest. The new angle has him reaching impossibly deeper as he begins giving you long, slow strokes. It’s his favorite view. Your tight cunt swallowing him whole. He can barely tear his eyes away.

“Fuck, look at you. Already so drunk on my cock and she's taking me so well.” Now watching your fucked out face. Eyes closed, heard thrown back and mouth slack with moans and expletives spilling out.

His words spur that flame within you, only burning hotter with each drag of his cock along your frontal wall. Your pussy flutters around him.

He lifted up, placing his hand around your throat, picking up his pace once more. Grip growing tighter with every thrust. You expect finger shaped bruises to be blooming in the morning.

The sounds of skin slapping skin along with the moans pulled from you and the grunts from Eddie fill the back of the van. You were getting close as your cunt pulsed around his thick, fat cock.

“I can feel her baby, she's getting tighter. You need to cum huh? Tell me who's pussy this is. And I’ll let you cum.”

He loosened his grip so you could speak.

You gasped as the newly found air entered your lungs, “It's yours Eddie, she's all yours.”

“That's… fucking… right.” Punctuating each word with a thrust. He moved his deft fingers down your body, resting for a moment on your mound, before his thumb began rubbing harsh circles to your clit.

“I know you're close. Cum with me baby.”

It only took a few more thrusts, with his thumb never ceasing its movements, you were coming undone. Your pussy clamped down around him with such a force it almost pushed him out.

“Oh fuck, Eddie!” You cried out as your orgasm hit with a blinding force. Your toes curled, as your whole body felt like a livewire.

“Goddamn, baby. You're strangling me.” He hissed out.

He regained his composure, pounding into you, chasing his own high. A few more sloppy pumps and he was spilling into you, thick ropes of his release filling you to the brim.

“Fuck baby.” He kissed your forehead as you caught your breath.

“Fuck, Eds.” You giggled.

He pulled his softening cock from you, watching as some of his spend leaked from you.

“What a beautiful site,” he whispered, moving out of your space to retrieve your underwear, sliding them back up your legs to keep the mess contained then leaning down to place a kiss on your mound. Such a tender gesture.

“Sorry, I don't have anything to clean you up baby.” Kissing your knee as you bent up to retrieve your clothes.

“It's ok Eds, we'll shower when we get home.” You cupped his cheek as he nuzzled into your palm briefly. You both dressed and got back into the front seats.

He headed home at a leisurely pace, both content to ride in the peace and quiet of the night.

You watched the streetlights pass, growing more frequent the closer you got into town.

You'd only passed one other vehicle on the way back in. Hawkins was on edge, houses shut tight and barely any lights to be seen. It was eerie to say the least. All hoping this was a single incident, but a killer was still on the loose.

He slowed at a stop sign, before making the turn back to your house and in the distance, you saw the glow of cruiser lights.

“Oh great, what now?” He huffed. Your attention already trained ahead.

“I don't know, but I've got a really bad feeling.”

He slowly rolled past the scene. Two cruisers and the medical examiners van were parked out front of one of the newer homes on Elm Street.

“Doesn’t Chase Owen live there?” You asked.

“How the hell should I know baby, haven’t heard from that asshat since high school.”

There was a deputy stationed out front, he waved the van through. Trying to quickly get rid of any rubberneckers that dared to pass by.

You caught his eyes, Steve, looking at you with this unreadable expression as he quickly looked away.

You would come to realize Jason and Chrissy were just the warmup.

Soon, the body count would rise, and it was going to get messy.

@barbedwirebats I know you wanted to be tagged!

[morgan-va]

Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Drone (Serial Designation N x Reader)

Story Masterlist

You’ve often wondered how you ended up here.

Your desk, a grayed-out island surrounded by a sea of other identical workstations, has seen better days. The once-shiny JCJenson logo etched into the corner is now dulled, just like your enthusiasm for the corporate grind. The monitor flickers faintly as you scroll through endless spreadsheets, each cell populated with strings of numbers that meant nothing to you beyond "quarterly projections" and "acceptable casualty margins."

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. A branded pen rolls off the edge of your desk, landing with a dull clatter on the tile floor. You don’t bother picking it up; there’s a whole box of them in the supply closet.

Today’s tasks are, as always, a parade of monotony. Data entry, damage reports, and the ever-fun task of shredding documents that were marked CONFIDENTIAL in red ink. As you feed another stack of papers into the industrial shredder, you catch snippets of text:

"Serial Designation X-0T1010110 failed containment—Incident resulted in 14 human casualties...""Cost analysis of drone-related repairs versus human replacements..."

You shove the papers in faster, unwilling to linger on the details. It’s easier not to think about what these reports mean.

The office air is stale, recycled a thousand times over by a ventilation system older than most of the drones JCJenson manufactures. The faint hum of machines, the clicking of keyboards, and the distant buzz of the breakroom microwave form a symphony of corporate drudgery.

“Hey, you coming to the quarterly review meeting?” asks a coworker as they pass by, holding a coffee cup with JCJenson’s slogan: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result."

You force a polite smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They nod and shuffle off, leaving you alone with your spreadsheets and the nagging feeling that, for all the talk of liability and safety, the only thing JCJenson seems passionate about is grinding the life out of its employees.

The meeting is exactly as insufferable as you expected.

You sit near the back of the room, a strategic choice to avoid being called on for any questions or insights. A projection screen at the front displays an overly cheerful PowerPoint deck. Each slide is crammed with pie charts, bar graphs, and buzzwords like "synergy," "stakeholder alignment," and "Q4 optimization goals."

A senior manager drones (ha) on in a monotone voice, flipping through slides as though he’s on autopilot. You catch snippets of phrases:

"Revenue up by 0.3%...""Minimizing liability in high-risk sectors...""Drone maintenance backlog—actionable in Q1..."

Your mind drifts. You find yourself staring at the JCJenson motto printed at the top of every slide: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result." It’s hard not to read it sarcastically.

Occasionally, someone in the audience offers a nod or a murmured "good point," though it’s doubtful they’re any more engaged than you are. At one point, the manager makes a joke about "cutting-edge safety measures" that earns a smattering of polite chuckles. You don’t even bother to fake it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meeting adjourns. You’re free—at least for the next five minutes.

You join the shuffle of employees heading to the breakroom, each of you moving with the enthusiasm of a dead lemur. It’s time for the corporate-mandated 5-minute donut break, a peculiar ritual meant to boost morale.

The breakroom smells faintly of coffee and powdered sugar. A box of donuts sits on the counter, already half-empty. You grab one without looking and take a bite, barely tasting it as you lean against the wall. Conversations buzz around you, but none of it registers.

For five blissful minutes, you don’t think about spreadsheets, shredders, or casualty reports. Just you, your donut, and the fleeting illusion of freedom.

The break ends far too soon, as it always does, and you find yourself back at your desk. The donut was mediocre, and the coffee left a bitter aftertaste that matches your mood.

Your next task: complaint emails. A never-ending stream of them floods your inbox, each one angrier than the last. You open the first message, its subject line screaming at you in all caps:

"RE: MY DRONE ATE MY DOG AND BURNED DOWN MY HOUSE."

You sigh, already bracing yourself. Without even reading the body of the email, your fingers move to type the same canned response you’ve sent a hundred times before:

"Dear Valued Customer,We are very sorry to hear you are dissatisfied with the quality of your JCJenson Drone. Please note that our products undergo rigorous testing to meet our industry-leading standards. Your feedback is important to us and has been forwarded to the appropriate department. We appreciate your patience and understanding during this time.Kind regards,JCJenson Customer Care Team."

Click. Send.

The next email isn’t much better:

"RE: WHY DID MY DRONE DROP MY GROCERIES AND ATTACK MY MAILMAN?"

You adjust the response slightly to fit, but the template remains the same. Apologies, assurances, and a whole lot of nothing.

It’s easier not to think about the implications of the complaints—the lives disrupted or ruined by faulty drones. You wonder if the people writing these emails ever get a real response. Probably not.

Your inbox refreshes, and another batch of complaints pours in. You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning quietly to yourself. It’s just another day at JCJenson, where liability is our passion —and, apparently, yours to deal with.

The clock finally ticks over to quitting time, and you hit send on your last email with the same mechanical motion as every other. The subject line, "RE: MY DRONE LEVELED MY GARDEN SHED AND STOMPED ON MY CAT," disappears into the void of customer complaints, and you let out a long, cathartic sigh.

The weekend. Two days of freedom stretch before you like a mirage, promising peace, quiet, and absolutely no mention of drones, casualties, or pie charts. You’re already halfway to the coat rack, hand reaching for the worn overcoat you’ve had for years—it’s practically a relic of a simpler time.

But just as your fingers brush the fabric, a manila folder slams into your hand.

“Hold it right there, kid!”

You flinch at the unmistakable bark of your boss. He looms over you like a storm cloud, his perpetual scowl deepening as he gestures to the folder. He looks as though he’s about to chew you out but instead slaps you on the back, nearly knocking you off balance.

“Big job, huge job,” he says, his voice booming enough to turn a few heads nearby. “And you’re just the person for it!”

You open your mouth to object, but he barrels on, not giving you a chance to get a word in. “I handpicked you for this assignment because you’re the best we’ve got!” he declares, eyes darting suspiciously over his shoulder.

It’s then that you notice the unmistakable gleam of a golf club sticking out from behind his back. The clinking of clubs gives him away, but he quickly shifts his stance to obscure them further.

“Yeah, yeah,” he continues, waving vaguely at the folder in your hand, “confidential, high-priority, yada yada. Needs to be handled ASAP! ”

“Wait, what is—”

“No time for questions!” he interrupts, already backing toward the elevator. “You’re a pro! I know you’ll knock it outta the park! Or, uh—whatever it is you do!”

The elevator dings, and he practically leaps inside, his golf caddy rattling behind him. He stabs the “close doors” button repeatedly, giving you a quick salute as the doors slide shut.

“Good luck! Don’t mess it up!” he shouts just before disappearing entirely.

You’re left standing there, the manila folder in your hand, the weekend slipping away before your very eyes.

You stand there for a moment, folder in hand, watching the elevator doors close. Then, with a long, resigned sigh, you rub the bridge of your nose and trudge back to your desk. The coat you were so close to grabbing sways mockingly on the rack as you pass it by.

Your chair creaks as you sink back into it, tossing the folder onto the desk in front of you. You take a moment to glare at it, as if sheer willpower might make it vanish. It doesn’t.

With a heavy sense of inevitability, you flip the folder open. The first page stares back at you, black text on crisp paper, but you barely register what it says at first. You’re too busy mourning the weekend plans that had been so rudely snatched away from you.

Plans. Ha. Like you had anything ambitious in mind.

You were going to swing by the pizza place on the way home, pick up a large with extra cheese, and spend the evening on the couch watching the same YouTube documentary about dog breeds you’d already seen five times. The narrator’s voice was comforting, and you always liked the section on Golden Retrievers.

Instead, here you are. Another late night, courtesy of JCJenson. But hey, at least you have all the branded pens you could hope for.

You shake your head and focus on the contents of the folder. It’s filled with the usual corporate nonsense: incident reports, legal disclaimers, and technical diagrams of drones. But halfway through, something unusual catches your eye—a requisition form stamped with bright red ink:

"URGENT: TRANSFER PROTOCOLS FOR TEST UNIT N-0X0010010.”

The rest of the document is dense with jargon, but one thing is clear: you’re being tasked with supervising the “home protocols” of one of the company’s experimental drones. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a task you’re qualified—or paid enough—for.

You lean back in your chair, staring at the requisition form. “Perfect,” you mutter to yourself, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “There goes my pizza night.”

With a groan, you shove the folder under your arm and head toward the elevators. The requisition form gives you just enough information to know where you’re supposed to go—down to the warehouse. You’d never been there before, but you’ve heard the stories: endless rows of drone parts, the hum of assembly lines, and an atmosphere so heavy with tension it feels like the walls themselves are judging you.

The elevator ride is mercifully short. The doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of grease and scorched metal. You follow the signs toward the warehouse, boots clacking on the scuffed floor as the sound of distant machinery grows louder.

Finally, you reach a massive set of double doors, with a glowing neon sign above them that reads:

“AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. HARD HATS REQUIRED.We have lawyers. You don’t. Wear a hard hat!”

You stop in your tracks, staring at the sign. A sigh escapes your lips, louder than you intended. Of course. Of course they’d make you turn back after getting all the way down here.

Muttering under your breath about liability paranoia, you retrace your steps to the maintenance closet you’d passed earlier. Sure enough, there’s a stack of faded yellow hard hats sitting on the shelf, each one more battered than the last. You grab the least crusty-looking one, dust it off, and jam it onto your head.

“Safety first,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the warehouse. The hard hat sits awkwardly on your head, just a little too small, the strap digging into your chin. You resist the urge to rip it off as you push open the double doors and step inside.

You push the warehouse doors open, greeted by the echoing hum of machinery and the acrid scent of oil and melted plastic. The place is cavernous, rows of shelves stretching up toward the high ceiling, filled with spare parts, crates, and what looks like a disassembled drone that probably belongs in a museum.

As you step into the loading bay, a familiar voice calls out: “Yo, dude! Wassup?”

Oh no. Not him.

Brad, the shipping manager, waves lazily from behind a forklift. His perpetual slouch and that ridiculous mop of sun-bleached hair make him look like he got lost on his way to a surf competition.

“Boss said you’d be droppin’ by,” he drawls, sauntering toward you like he has all the time in the world. He’s wearing a JCJenson polo shirt that looks one size too big, untucked and wrinkled, like he grabbed it off the floor this morning.

You’ve met Brad a handful of times—mostly at company retreats and awkward holiday parties. He’s the guy who raids the snack table and disappears halfway through the event, leaving you to wonder how anyone can eat an entire bowl of chips by themselves.

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, already exhausted by his energy. “Boss said there was something for me?”

“Totally, totally,” Brad says, gesturing vaguely toward a massive shipping crate sitting on a pallet. The thing is huge, easily taller than you and sealed with bright red warning labels.

“All yours, bro,” Brad says with a lazy grin. “I’ll load it into a truck for ya. Y’know, company wheels. Real sweet ride.”

You glance at the crate, then back at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”

Brad shrugs, leaning against the forklift like he’s in a photoshoot. “No idea, dude. I just move the boxes.”

You resist the urge to rub your temples.

“Oh, heads up, though,” he adds, as if remembering something important. “Truck’s got GPS, so, like, don’t even think about takin’ a joyride. You go anywhere but where the bigwigs said? Boom. Pay docked. Or whatever. Not my problem.”

He says it all with such a lack of enthusiasm that you’re not entirely sure he’s serious.

“Great,” you mutter, staring at the crate as Brad ambles toward the forklift. This was shaping up to be such a fun weekend.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Brad maneuver the forklift with surprising precision. For someone with the demeanor of a guy who says “radical” unironically, he handles the equipment like he’s been doing it for years.

The massive crate is lifted and gently deposited into the bed of a JCJenson-branded pickup truck—a surprisingly seamless process. You raise an eyebrow, almost impressed, but quickly squash the feeling.

“Boom. Done,” Brad says, hopping down from the forklift and tossing you the keys. You barely catch them, fumbling for a second before they settle in your palm.

“Thanks,” you mutter, making your way toward the driver’s side.

“Enjoy the ride, dude!” Brad calls after you, already heading back to whatever it is he does when no one’s watching. “And don’t forget the GPS thing! Seriously!”

You don’t bother replying, sliding into the truck’s seat and slamming the door shut behind you. The truck smells like stale coffee and something faintly metallic, and the dashboard is cluttered with enough buttons and dials to make you feel like you’re piloting a spaceship.

The keys turn in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. You grip the wheel tightly, eager to get this over with. The sooner you’re home, the sooner you can—well, not relax exactly, but at least pretend to.

As you pull out of the warehouse and onto the road, your mind starts to wander.

This whole thing is ridiculous. Not just the last-minute assignment, but the fact that they’ve shoved you into a task so far outside your job description it’s laughable. You’re customer support. Your life is answering emails about worker drone-related catastrophes and shredding documents that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Testing experimental drones? Ha. Not even close.

You’ve never owned a drone. Not that you’d want to. The thought of one of those unpredictable, clunky metal bipeds stomping around your apartment is enough to make your skin crawl. You’ve read way too many emails about battery failures that turned into small fires or drones deciding to interpret their owner’s sarcastic remarks a little too literally.

“RE: WORKER DRONE SHATTERED MY KITCHEN WINDOW WITH A FLYING PLATE”—that one stuck with you.

And then there were the personality glitches. Oh, the personality glitches. Reading through frantic emails about drones throwing tantrums, refusing to perform tasks, or just standing in the corner staring at the wall for hours… yeah, you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life.

Besides, it’s not like you get paid enough to afford one anyway. Ha.

You glance at the GPS display, following the glowing line that marks your route home. The crate rattles slightly in the back with every bump in the road, a constant reminder of the weekend you didn’t sign up for.

The truck hums along, the city lights blurring past as you make your way toward home.

[draco-after-dark]

Rock zombie Feral

(I already made some art that will be posted soon but i needed to talk about this idea)

Okay so hear me out

Rock zombie Feral JD but it went wrong. all kinds of wrong.

So it seemed a big thing from the rock zombies is that when you've been zombie-fied the effects vary depending on the troll. I'm going to focusing more on Branch's case then the other troll leaders since he is JD's brother and is the closest rock example I'm ever going to get.

So what if JD was at one point or another turned into a Rock Zombie. Like an early test for the guitar but it went horribly wrong because

Feral JD was been without troll contact for 20+ years

The guitar was incomplete, missing a string or two

Barb got impatient and wanted to test it out (it did not go well)

What if i made the chunk out of Barbs ear JD's fault because he bite her in his rage (sorry Barb fans)

I'm thinking the events played out as along the Rock trolls tour across the continent they stumbled across John Dory when they had been passing through a forest. They new he wasn't a Rock troll. They weren't entirely sure what kind of troll he was, since he's grey and all and wasn't exactly singing or anything.

He just growl and hissed at them as he tried to escape but they cornered through him into one of those cages they have. It was not an easy feet a lot of the Trolls who had to wrangle him into it got bitten, scratched or both.

Once he's been contained it pretty self explanatory. Barb shows up with the guitar and blasts JD with the perfect rock harmony (forgot what is actually called).

Hell breaks lose in the cage and JD is slamming against the walls, the whole cage rattling and shaking at the impacts. the metal groaning in protest.

Barb remarks "He's a feisty one"

The main thing that sets him off is when they start playing loud rock music. JD having been in the quiet of the forest so long is shellshocked at the loudness and with his ears being quite sensitive so he feels nothing but agony.

JD was already pretty unstable at this point when around unknown things, so add unfamiliar trolls who chained you up and through you in a small cage. He is pissed to say the least. and in pain.

If you know Dragon ball he basically goes full Broly mode.

i imagine he starts to glow a bright red and with a loud screaming roar grabs the cage door and rips the whole things off the hinges and throws it at the nearest group of trolls.

Warning for the following writing below i do talk about death a bit and other things so be careful if that makes you uncomfortable

Upon his jailbreak he goes on a one man war mission and wreaks havoc on anything in his path. ANYTHING. Trolls included. The Rocks trolls do mange to escape with minimal casualties since JD is in a frenzy and is taking his rage out on anything.

He goes full Broly at this point.

When the Rock Trolls get away he sets his sights on anything that moves around him. Wandering aimlessly through the woods demolishing anything that breaths. big or small. a trail of destruction and death following him.

I imagine this goes on for a few days since they still have to collect the final few strings and then need to have the whole Rock concert.

After the guitar is destroyed JD is freed with the seemingly endless anger and rage that had been coursing through his body for days. Unable to calm down or think rationally.

He essentially wake ups after that. Finally being able to breath after everything. You can imagine he felt so out of control for so long he just sort of sits their. by himself curled up into a ball of fluff reflecting on everything that happened.

This is where the whole "I'm a monster" steams from. JD has a lot of guilt regarding the trolls he attacked in his blind rage. This event also contributes to him realizing how far he's fallen.

He knows that same ferocity has always been their, living inside him but he was always able to keep in under control. Keep his anger under control. No matter what.

It felt good to finally just let it out. Although unintentionally, part of him feel releive that he was finally able to get out all that pent up frustration.

It also terrified him. Remembering how much damage he caused, the lives he changed. what if it happened again and he hurt more trolls.

So this gives him even more reason to avoid other trolls until his capture by Veneer and then at his eventual reunion with his brothers.

Now all he thinks about is how terrified his brothers must be of him.

:(

Also JD is famous among the rock trolls now by the name Crimson Death because of the whole glowing red thing and the whole mass destruction thing after those events.

The rock trolls are equal parts in aw of his ferocity and also terrified of it. Rock trolls always gave me unhinged vibes.

Still working on this idea so bare with me but if anyone got ideas about it send them my way.

[b1asho]

I’m curious… why/how would past humans add RUU into their machinery the first place… what was its use? How did humans even find RUU?

(Or is that secret lore / you don’t know yet)

RRGH I HAVE MANY QUESTIONS/THEORIES ABOUT RUU IT FASCINATES ME SO MUCH!

It was discovered by accident after the first natural breach destroyed an American satellite.

space travel was just kicking off for humans, they still only had good ol' combustion engines but were in a climate/resource crisis (aka running out of things to combust with XD) Unfortunately, after a string of climate-related issues caused the meltdown of several nuclear reactors around the globe, testing and research on making viable nuclear engines for spacecraft slowed to a crawl.

The satellite incident garnered a lot of media attention because space/space expiditions were very topical (yknow, with the planet falling apart and stuff) and a lot of people thought it might have been aliens. Once scientists at [name pending, research company for government] figured out the material from that sattelite was contaminated with Something we've never seen before, it was a scramble to figure out what was going on. Another accident when exploring the area led to the discovery that once a machine had been 'irradiated', RUU could be channeled into the wires etc to do the same thing electricity could (they encountered type 1 here, luckily for them, since no other type can do this as easily as what happened here) . Further testing with machines irradiated by the other machines and the original sattelite bits led to the creation of specialized computers. These could "widen" a breach, make sure only type 1 frequency came out, and contain it in a fixed and concentrated location by giving commands to the RUU with electricity. This allowed these "engines" to be put into other craft, where the RUU shed by the stabalized breach could be fed via wires to power other parts.

Its whole gimmick is that once we "tapped in" to the [wherever it comes from] using a breach, RUU gave out an endless energy output that needed no fuel and produced zero waste!!

The only limit was how long the parts could deal with the heat (same as with conduits in the present day lol. Speaking of that, it should be noted that no one was actually touching this stuff with a 10ft pole, and it was absolutely locked the fuck down in layers of protection. So even though there was a lot of it around, no one was ever exposed enough to become a conduit. That only happened after the crash when it got let loose )

As far as they could tell, there was also no emission/side effects when it was properly contained in the machines, which made it *totally* safer....

This was extremely inticing in the current climate, and in order to out-compete some other countries, America started using it to power the liftoff and operation of spacecraft (more as a publicity thing ahaisnt other countries, and honestly they were just bullshitting and hoping to distract/dazzle the public with "other dimensional!!!! Power!!!!!! " but then it linda started actually working. Though this decision to use RUU was only made under the intense push from the research company tasked with making the tech in the first place. They advertised they were making a way to escape into space, which meant the gov was funneling money to them like crazy)

The effort was a success, and by selling it off to allies, a few countries started colonizing the moon (start of the lunar age)

There was an explosion of activity around the subject, and soon snowballed into other countries stealing it and also going to space. Humans did the usual and just started running with it (minimal testing, long term side effects who cares, etc etc) Soon, the soon the entire solar system was somewhat inhabited, space-built strcutures everywhere, etc. Cold fusion/nuclear power was like. A secondary concern/only used when you couldn't get your hands on RUU breach tech.

Naturally, though, they wanted to go further. People wanted a 2nd earth, not a tiny dome on Mars.

Everything kind of fell apart when they started trying to use it to make a wormhole (spoiler alert, if you want to open a giant door between your world and an entirely unknown plane to power a machine theoretically capable of punching holes in our spacetime, you should probably be very sure there's nothing that could be watching from the other side. It didnt go the way they thought it would.)

Sorry that was a bit long but I better write it out somehwere for my own future reference XD )